


Far from the Tree

by Shorts84



Category: Portrait de la jeune fille en feu | Portrait of a Lady on Fire (2019)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Teachers, F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-12
Updated: 2020-12-11
Packaged: 2021-03-08 07:41:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 28
Words: 117,574
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26968405
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shorts84/pseuds/Shorts84
Summary: “Maybe loyalty is a kind of patience. Like hope. A holding pattern for the heart, while we wait for change.”Marianne needed a change. Teaching in a country prep school for a year, as it turned out, would change pretty much everything.
Relationships: Héloïse & Marianne (Portrait of a Lady on Fire), Héloïse/Marianne (Portrait of a Lady on Fire)
Comments: 1417
Kudos: 653





	1. Another World

Instant coffee.

In her memory, that year had condensed, into the smells of poster paint and PVA glue, apple blossom and elderflower, compost, tacky masking tape and papier-mâché, mud, sweaty trainers, slick clay. And fish and chips. And Héloïse. Mown grass and waxed jackets.

Instant coffee.

Abigail had warned her.

“You’ll have to muck in with everything,” she said. “It’s that kind of place. Do you remember any netball?”

Marianne blanched. “Not really.” She was overcome by a sudden shock of tabards, and pivots, and bounce passes.

“Well, brush up,” her friend advised. “There’s plenty of videos on youtube. I’ll be leaving them an umpire down, so if you can just step in, they will one hundred percent love you.”

“Do they have to one hundred percent love me?” Marianne was already having doubts.

Her friend smirked. “In your case, maybe aim for seventy eight percent love? You’re spending a year in a village of teachers,” she said, shifting uncomfortably in her seat. Her back had been bad for what seemed like months. Poor Abby. “It’s a fishbowl. Everyone knows everyone else’s business. So, yes. It’s worth them loving you. They can make your life very difficult if they don’t.” She grinned at her friend, knowing her well enough to understand her apprehension. “Don’t you worry. Yeah, you have to work through them, but there are half terms, and long, long holidays. The first exeat weekend is barely a fortnight in. You’ll be back in London before you’ve even unpacked.”

“Packing,” Marianne muttered. “Shit.”

“Oh, and if they’re housing you, you’ll be expected to supervise prep.”

“Prep?” Marianne asked.

“Homework hour. The kids do it in school. Home time isn’t until six during the week, lunchtime on Saturdays.”

Marianne remembered laughing at the very idea. Classes on a Saturday. “Private schools are something else,” she marvelled.

“It’s another world,” Abigail confirmed.

Panic hit Marianne like a cold wave, and she found herself almost pleading. “Abby, mate, are you sure you’re pregnant?”

Abigail rubbed a baby bump the size of a medicine ball. “Not for very much longer,” she sighed, and raised her glass of orange juice in a sarcastic toast. “And that, champ, is where you come in.”

Marianne had moved in two weeks before the autumn term started. A small flat, above the village Post Office, directly over the road from the music department and the swimming pool. She could see the reflections from the water sometimes, webbing her bedroom ceiling with fractured light.

“Another world?” Marianne had thought to herself. “Another sodding planet.”

The headmistress had undertaken the welcome-ish tour herself.

“Pottery,” Miss Blanchard said, waving a vague hand to the smaller studio. “Painting, drawing and sculpture in the main art room, of course, but I imagine you’re familiar with all that. Did Abigail show you the ropes? She left you lesson plans?”

“Oh, Abby’s a planner.”

Marianne’s guide barely waited for her to reply before continuing. “There’s the computer lab, which is at your disposal, should you need it. You share that with Design Technology, obviously. We have drawing tablets,” she said. “And a *3D* printer.” The headmistress looked a little lost for a moment. “I don’t know how it works. But a parent donated it. And Nigel said we needed one. So.”

“Generous parents,” Marianne commented.

“Very,” said Miss Blanchard pointedly. Before sweeping on. “Please don’t do any batik, needlepoint or copper hammering. There are Wednesday afternoon clubs for that, and we could do without you treading on any toes. Ideas for art trips need to be costed, run by the bursary, and fully risk assessed. Oh, and there’s a dark room.” Nested under a head of fair bubble curls, the headmistress’s blank, blue stare met Marianne’s. Unsure of whether there might be more information to come, Marianne waited. Until the pause became awkward. And she felt obliged to put it out of its misery.

“Good?” she offered.

“I don’t know if we have the chemicals for it any more,” Miss Blanchard sighed. “But it’s there,” she stated. “If you’re interested.”

“If the children are interested, you mean,” said Marianne.

The headmistress fixed her with a beady eye. “At Otterbourne Prep,” she said, “we believe that the best way to produce genuinely interesting human beings, is to share your genuine interests with them.” She lowered her voice conspiratorially. “And they can tell when you don’t give a shit. Come. It’s a long way to the main staff room. Let me show you the little kitchen you have in here.”

That was the first cup of instant coffee, drunk leaning against a formica worktop, Marianne’s shoes slipping on the newly-mopped lino, as she made agonising small talk with her boss.

“Filthy stuff,” Miss Blanchard said, as she drained her own cup and smacked her lips. “But I do find it’s better if you dissolve the granules in the milk first.” She rinsed her cup, brisk and efficient.

“I’ll try that next time,” Marianne promised, without the faintest idea of why she had said it. She had drunk her coffee black since sixth form. This place was getting to her already.

They had given her a gap year student.

Sophie. Gorgeous, wide-eyed, foul-mouthed Sophie.

“Fucking spreadsheets,” she exclaimed during their first meeting. “You think I’m heading to art college for the love of fucking spreadsheets?”

Marianne leaned over and showed her.

“Here’s what we have in stock, separated out by department. Here’s the unit price by supplier, annual budget, estimated usage per term… Here’s where you log orders.”

“Maths!” Sophie wailed. “I’m so young! Why are you making me maths?”

“One banana plus one banana equals two bananas,” Marianne teased.

“ _You mock my pain_!”

“Maths is key,” Marianne said. She remembered being eighteen. “You wait until it’s your own studio and your own money. You’ll be grateful that you learned to budget.”

Sophie had turned those enormous brown eyes on her. “Do you have your own studio?” she asked, suddenly solemn.

“I did,” Marianne replied. “In London. For a long time.”

“What’s it like?” Sophie had asked, her tone suddenly hushed and reverent.

“Expensive.” She had felt her jaw go tight. “Hard to make a go of it without help.”

Those perceptive brown eyes had seen something, a door beyond which she knew she was not yet welcome. “Maths is key?” Sophie asked.

Marianne had felt herself smiling. “Utterly key.”

The main staff room wasn’t that far from the art department. Not really. Compared to Marianne’s stomping grounds in London, where she would walk half an hour without a second thought for a decent flat white, the school was a postage stamp. Everything seemed shrunk down, as if to fit snugly into the horizons of a nine-year-old. But after her first introduction to the faculty in the main school building, Marianne was pretty sure she would stick to the safety of the art block’s formica kitchenette.

“Everyone,” Miss Blanchard announced in her commanding gravel. “This is Marianne. I told you about her at the end of last term. She’s with us for the year as Abigail’s maternity cover.” Marianne raised a timid hand to the assembled curiosity of teachers. “Please make her feel welcome. You know how splendidly isolated the art block can be. She specialises in…” Miss Blanchard turned to her suddenly. “What kind of art _do_ you specialise in, dear?”

She didn’t know. One visit to her website and it would have been obvious. But the woman still didn’t know. “Portraiture,” Marianne replied, her voice coming out sharp and mortified. Unlikeable.

The headmistress’ face registered surprise. “How quaint,” she said. “Anyway,” she addressed the room, “I have no taste, as you all know, but I have it on excellent authority…” There was a ripple of knowing laughter in the room, discomfiting, alienating somehow. “…that Marianne is very talented. So. If you heed my advice,” Miss Blanchard allowed herself a small chuckle, heading to the door of her office, “you’d better take that as gospel.”

“They laughed at me,” she told Sophie in hushed tones, cloistered in the safety of the darkened studio. “They all laughed at me.”

“Were you being funny?” Sophie was scrolling through her tumblr looking for something. Her online oeuvre seemed to consist of beautifully drawn cartoon boys kissing each other. And the occasional wolf-man.

Sophie made her feel old.

“No,” she confessed. “I barely said anything.”

“How likely is it that they were laughing at you, then?” And stupid. Sophie made her feel old and stupid.

“I don't know.” Marianne tried to drink from the empty coffee cup for the fifth time. It was a sign that she was nervous. “Is it too late to resign, do you think?”

“The boarders come back tomorrow,” said Sophie, folding her arms. “And school starts on Monday. So. Yes. I would have said so. A little late.”

Marianne breathed. “I’m screwed.”

Sophie tipped her head on one side. “No,” she said, finally. “You’re just shy. And used to your own company.” She turned back to her computer. “Plus, you know that you’re not going to be here forever. And it’s hard to make the effort with people who are just waiting for you to leave.”

There was more than a little truth in what she said. Everyone in that staff room must have been a minimum of fifteen years older than Marianne. Her insides groaned. “Abby did warn me,” she muttered.

Sophie shot her a questioning look, the blue light of her laptop making her look about eight years old. “About what?”

“That most of the staff here are lifers,” she huffed. “Understandable. I mean, why would you ever leave?”

Sophie screwed up her button nose. “You think it’s that great?”

Marianne pictured the state schools she had plodded her way through. Concrete. Bitumen roofs. Chain link fencing. “Yes!” she wailed. “This place is beautiful, and cute, and better stocked than most colleges.”

“They do have tennis courts,” Sophie said, shrugging. “And a little climbing wall.”

“And a pool,” Marianne reminded her. “And astroturf.”

“Three full sized cricket pitches!” Sophie intoned in her best impression of the head of sport.

Marianne tried to sip her coffee again. She dinked herself on her front tooth. “And a 3D printer. I,” she whispered to herself, as if forming the words carefully could rob them of their power, “do not belong here.”

Sophie shut her browser and turned to Marianne. “Look,” she said. “You’re only around for a year. So am I. You feel like you don’t know anyone. Same here. You know what that means?”

Marianne stared into her empty cup, willing there to be coffee. Or gin. “When we leave, we can shake hands, change our names and pretend this never happened?”

Sophie tipped her head back and groaned. “No!” she said. “It means we get to be the cool kids!”

Marianne felt herself smile.

“For the first time in my nerd life!” Sophie intoned. “We can be cool! We can be aloof, and unapproachable, and have private, art department in-jokes.”

Marianne grinned. “I didn’t realise you could pre-arrange an in-joke,” she said. “Should we plan, or…?”

“Good point. Brainstorming. Tomorrow.” Sophie tapped it into their shared diary. “And people will want to be us. And we can hang out in the studio, and be all arty.”

“We can go to work, you mean?” Marianne said. “And do our jobs?”

“Yes,” Sophie answered blankly. “Obviously. Only the very coolest people find jobs that reflect their passions. And you know what else that makes us?”

Marianne waited.

Sophie’s voice dropped to a whisper. “Fucking role models!” She bit her lip with genuine excitement. “Can. You. Imagine?”

Marianne rolled her eyes. “You know you can’t swear like that in front of the children?” she said, attempting her line-manager voice for the first time.

Sophie sat up straight, her face completely serious. “Oh, I know. I won’t,” she said, quickly.

“Just checking.”

“My baby cousins go here,” she explained, with a shrug. “And my aunts would slaughter me.”

Marianne chuckled. “Okay,” she said. “Deal.”

“Deal?” Sophie’s face was alight. “You mean…?”

“Yes,” droned Marianne. “We can be cool together.”

“Yes!” Sophie turned back to her computer screen almost immediately with a frown. “Good talk. Now, I have been roped into assisting with PE next week,” she muttered. “And, Mr. Google, what. The fuck. Is a tchoukball?”

Marianne’s flat was unpacked, at least. Which meant that her clothes were piled on the floor exactly where she wanted them, and her books were alphabetised in their scrambled towers.

She could not sleep, though. She was standing at the window of her bedroom as the numbers on her alarm clock ticked over to half past midnight, worrying about the arrival of boarders. About the beginning of term. About teaching.

Abby had prepped her. Abby had talked through pretty much every lesson outline for the term. Abby had been her guinea pig, her test audience, her willing lab rat. Abby was a planner.

But Marianne was a worrier. And deep in Marianne’s belly, she knew that one thing she worried about a lot was being liked. She remembered the awe she had felt for her own art teachers, for her professors, for her contemporaries. And she felt suddenly the pressure of having to become that for someone else. To inspire that. Even if it was only for a year.

“You hide behind your canvas, Marianne.” Her father’s voice. “It holds you back.”

“Art is connection.”

That voice had been her own.

“Talking to myself,” she thought. “Another fantastic development.”

She stared across the little road, orange street lights bathing the narrow pavement in artificial sunset, and from the depth of the darkened school beyond, she thought she saw movement. A security light came on, startling pale blue, sparking an empty playing field into luminous existence for a long moment. Before winking out. And then, after perhaps five minutes more, the pool lights flickered on, the underwater ones, and the crazy undulating mesh of light dappled her walls. Her furniture. Her skin.

Someone was swimming. She could not see them clearly. But the body was long and confident, sweeping down the pool like a plough. They were totally alone.

It seemed wrong, suddenly, to keep watching. So, Marianne drew away, got back into her bed, and fell asleep under bright patterns of shifting water.

The boarders, it turned out, were not very scary. They were small, and excited, and damply nervous, with fresh haircuts and oversized blazers. Thrilled to see friends. Anxious to be left. Desperate, some of them, in every sense; clinging as fast to friends much missed, as to the legs of departing parents.

Some were very small.

“Who sends an eight year old to boarding school?” Marianne had asked Abby.

“Diplomats.” The reply had come immediately. “Seriously. The Foreign Office is practically a school sponsor.”

That would explain the cavalcade of discreet black BMWs, swish black Mercedeses, and sensible black Volvos. All shiny, shiny, shiny.

The staff had been assigned to a schedule of various activities for that first day, suitable for both the over-excited and the newly homesick. Marianne was roped into supervising and adjudicating a paper aeroplane competition with Nigel. “Design Technology. Oh, and Deputy Head, I suppose, but please don’t let that faze you.” He had a toothbrush moustache, greying hedgehog hair, and blushed whenever he spoke to her directly.

“Should we go with distance?” he asked. “Do you think? Or, maybe, elegance in the air?”

The tip of one finger was missing, she noticed. Probably an engineer.

“Both,” she answered. “With separate prizes.”

He had beamed at her, blushed again, and went in search of his measuring wheel, and some bouncy balls from the tuck shop.

One of the little girls had been hesitant about making planes.

“I don’t like flying,” she said.

“Me neither,” Marianne said gently. “But you don’t have to get in this one. It’s only pretend.”

Her expression had crumpled just a little bit. “Mummy will be on a plane tonight,” she said quietly.

“Really? Where is she going?”

“Uganda.”

Marianne swallowed, willed herself to be the grownup. “Would you rather make a hummingbird?” she asked. “It can’t really fly, but it’s pretty. Or a dinosaur?”

So, Marianne and Emilia had sat to one side of the group, methodically making dinosaurs for a happy half hour, talking about important things like Pokemon, and beagles, and tree climbing.

“Nifty!” Nigel exclaimed, once the clear winner of the distance competition had slammed their plane onto the roof of the sports hall to loud cheering. “You know, you should think about starting an origami club. Cheap materials. The kids have something to take away at the end. Show their friends. And it’s good for… oh, what do they call it now? We used to call it concentration. Not meditation. _Mindfulness_. That’s the badger. Very popular with the Chelsea tractor crowd.”

Marianne had found herself nodding, whilst also saying, “I don’t know that I’m much of a club person.”

Nigel narrowed his eyes at her in confusion as they walked back to the main school. “Have you seen the schedule?” he asked. “Have you seen your term dates? Even on Sundays, even on bank holidays, the kids are still here, you know.” He smiled proudly. “We have a fly fishing club. A sailing club. An opera club. The largest Dungeons and Dragons club in the county. If you have a hobby, Marianne, for Pete’s sake, teach it. Or you won’t ever do it.” He leaned in. “Become a club person,” he said.

As she wandered back to the art block, Marianne caught sight of a figure she did not yet recognise. Tall, messy fair hair, dressed in jeans and a dingy waxed jacket. Before her, she pushed a wheel barrow through the main classroom quad, laden high with fragrant compost, exhibiting the steady determination of a village Sisyphus. She was heading for the door in the wall, the one that led out towards the building that still seemed to be called the Master’s house, despite its now having a mistress. But the door was shut.

“Do you need a hand?” Marianne found herself calling.

The figure did not seem to hear, and instead charged the rubber wheel smack into the wooden door, which bounced open to admit her, vibrating closed again with perfect and Marianne imagined, practised timing. The broad shoulders disappeared from view.

“A club person?” Sophie repeated. She nodded to herself. “I mean, the argument is sound. But I’m not sure how it fits in with our mysterious popularity agenda.”

Marianne grinned as they set up for the next day; sugar paper, pencils, erasers. “It might just have to reveal a slightly more humane, approachable side,” she said. “The warm contrast, which serves to highlight our otherwise unattainable glamour.”

“We’ll have to think it through carefully,” Sophie muttered, apparently ignoring her. “The balance can be very delicate. Choose something too cool, and you come across as a terrible try-hard. Not cool at all. But something nerdy can _become_ cool, if the person doing it is cool enough not to care about its nerdiness.”

“Is that a fact?”

“Absolutely.” Her tone was definite. “That can be the fucking coolest.” She appeared to consider. “As long as you’re good at it. If you’re enthusiastic about something nerdy, but are clearly shit, then,” she sucked at her teeth sadly, “that is not cool.”

“No?”

“No. Adorable? Potentially. But not cool.”

Marianne walked Sophie back to her flat, above the girls’ dormitory.

“It’s a just an en-suite room, really. With a plug-in hob, you know. Little kettle.” Marianne noticed that her young friend never swore outside. It was endearing, how she could turn it off. As if it was something she had practised in front of a mirror, like learning to wink, or raise one eyebrow at a time. “Still,” she was saying, “it’s nicer than anything I’ll get at university.”

“Where are you applying?”

“I want to do illustration,” she said, with absolute certainty. “At Brighton. But for my foundation year, I don’t know. I’ve been looking at Bournemouth. Oxford Brooks, maybe. Where did you go?”

Marianne had spotted a wheelbarrow, parked against the wall of the sports hall, its insides washed out to a glossy green shine. She found herself idly scanning their surroundings. “The Slade. Fine art. Painting.”

“Wow,” Sophie said, genuinely taken aback. “Legit.”

“Yes. I suppose,” Marianne replied. “But, I think I might have been too young.” She couldn’t see anyone, and the security lights towards the fields and tennis courts remained resolutely off. “You have to know what you want.”

“I do,” Sophie replied.

“Then,” Marianne said, her attention snapping back from the empty darkness, “you’re already streets ahead of me.”

There was a staff meeting the next morning, before the first assembly of the new term, scheduled for God-awful o’clock.

Marianne set her alarm to go off at 6:15. And it was physically painful. It hurt her soul. But as she wrenched herself from sleep, hurling her bare legs over the edge of the bed, fingers raking wretchedly through her hair, she became aware, beyond the limits of her agony, of something new, and fragrant, and delightful. The Post Office downstairs, it would seem, had its own bakery.

Marianne crossed the road a little later, armed with two croissants, so gloriously slick with butter that their paper bag was becoming transparent. They were not both for her. She reasoned that if she knew anything about eighteen year olds, baked goods would be vital to the smooth running of this particular Monday, and bathed in the happiness of selfless deeds, she strode over the forecourt of the sports hall, eager to snag herself a seat next to Sophie if she could.

As she did so, she caught sight of someone jogging around the corner from the main car park. A woman; wearing running shorts and a hoodie. She was out of breath, her long legs spattered up to the knees with mud and wet grass cuttings. Messy blonde hair pulled back into a pony tail. She looked at an enormous metallic watch on her wrist as she slowed, heading for the double doors of the sports hall. She almost did not see Marianne. But her eyes raised, just before she shouldered her way into the darkened building. And Marianne realised that she had stopped dead in her tracks, and was staring back. Into two wide, grey eyes; surprised storm clouds.

Marianne blurted out, unable to stop herself, “You’re the gardener.”

She saw the barest twitch of amusement at one corner of the parted lips, the breath still heavy. And it looked, for a moment, as though the runner might have been about to reply. But then a shout from across the quad startled them both.

“Marianne!” Sophie yelled. “Please tell me that’s a bag of breakfast!”

And the figure backed squarely into the darkened sports hall, a fading shape behind the shining windows, heading for the showers.


	2. The Gardener

Marianne found that she was glancing about her, as they passed the old wooden lockers, wending their way down towards the staff room.

“Non-cafeteria breakfast!” Sophie was sniffing at the bag with a reverence that verged on adoration. “Food intended for adult consumption!” she whispered. “ _Bigger than bite-size!_ ”

“Did you recognise the runner from the sports hall?” Marianne asked, interrupting her friend’s reverie.

“I didn’t see,” Sophie replied. “Why? Was he cute?” Her eyes gave a little knowing shine. “Was it Miles?”

“Miles?” Marianne repeated, flummoxed, “No. She was a… ” grasping for the conversation she thought they had been having. “… a she. And. Wait. Miles?” Marianne gathered herself. “Miles.”

“Rugby exchange,” said Sophie, matter-of-factly. “Over from New Zealand. God among mortals. I totally would.”

“Right.” Marianne was privately glad that Sophie’s tone was so pragmatic. She wouldn’t have known what to do with starry-eyed fawning. “He’s your age?” she asked.

“Pretty much the only person around here who is,” Sophie replied.

“Right. And you two… get on?”

Sophie gave her a strange look. “Get on?” she asked. “Like, how we talk about our interests for hours on WhatsApp, while we simulbinge episodes of She-Ra, and plan country ramble play-dates for our days off?” Marianne was just thinking how nice this all sounded, when Sophie rolled her eyes. “He’s been here for a week. I have said ‘Hi’ to him on two occasions, and he didn’t make eye contact once.”

“Didn’t he?” Marianne asked, something grimly protective rearing in her gut. “Where _was_ he looking?”

“His knees,” laughed Sophie. “His gorgeous, chiselled, grass-stained, Kiwi knees.”

“All right, all right.” Marianne took a moment, to consider Sophie; practical, no-nonsense, powder-dry Sophie; and found it almost impossible to imagine that she, Marianne, had anything to offer by way of advice, anything that would not be dismissed as either presumptuous or patronising. After all, what had she done, really _done_ , with the ten years that separated them? Gone to the Slade, and then gone to ground. Hidden beneath the sheen of London, behind a baffle wall of canvas. “Well,” she said lightly, “let me know, if he ever says anything back.”

“Will do.”

“But, Sophie.” Marianne stopped mid stride, only then noticing that her petite companion was having to trot to keep up with her. “Just remember; I know it might feel temporary,” she said. “I know it might feel like it doesn’t matter but, this is your job. This is a good opportunity. And it’s just a year. It will go by so fast. Don’t waste it, running after a… a…” She floundered, looking for the right word.

Sophie leaned in. “Shag?” she whispered.

“I was going to say ‘boy’,” Marianne muttered, feeling herself blush.

“Oh! Yes,” Sophie replied brightly, not bothered in the slightest. “That works too.”

“Only, I didn’t want to sound condescending.”

“I take your point. I think ‘man’ would have made me sound…” Sophie’s eyes swung to the ceiling in conscientious consideration. “…I don’t know, a bit predatory? But, yes. I know what you mean. He is… He’s all grown up.” She smiled, reassuringly, at Marianne. Who was ten years older than her. And who was trying desperately not to vaporise with discomfort. Sophie said in a low but clear voice, “I promise not to waste this opportunity chasing after sex.”

Marianne nodded. Unable to look up. “Good,” she barked out.

“Good?”

“Yes.” Her voice drum tight.

“Happy?”

“Very.”

“Then let’s go.” Sophie trotted out ahead, untroubled as a Labrador. “Oh my god, that croissant is calling my _name_.”

The staff room was crammed. As usual, the seats around the table were all taken by the heads of department, form teachers and tutors, regulars at these meetings, whose primacy went unchallenged. But around the edges, the subject teachers dithered, uncertain of their places in the hierarchy, cradling cups of over-brewed tea, and crippling self-doubt.

The peripatetic music teachers, who had probably only been invited along out of polite embarrassment, assembled defiantly by the fruit arrangement, ravenous for any refreshment they had not been obliged to bring in from home.

And the few visiting sports staff reclined at the back. In no need of tea. Having chugged a protein shake before their cycle in, thanks. Every one of them had their arms crossed, Marianne noticed, and between the lot of them, they seemed to be suffering a sad shortage of neck.

She whispered to Sophie, “Which one?” Sophie looked horrified. But Marianne insisted. “Or no croissant,” she threatened.

Sophie muttered, “Freckles.” And grabbed the pastry bag.

He was dark haired, nice looking, still a little rosy of ear and tender of lip. ‘Boy’ hadn’t been far off. For all the gymbo physique, he wore his maturity with growing room. Marianne saw him notice her young friend’s presence. And registered how his neck grew pink.

They wriggled through to the hot water urns.

“What do you want?” Sophie asked, helping herself to a teabag.

“Coffee,” Marianne replied, reaching for the jar. “Those things never get the water hot enough for a decent cup of tea.”

And just then, in a voice that she very nearly recognised, a new presence behind her said, “Filthy stuff.”

Marianne turned.

It was the runner.

The gardener.

But dressed in a white collared shirt, under a round necked blue jumper, tweedy looking trousers and Oxford brogues. Her hair had been wrangled into a messy bun behind her head and she wore no makeup, just an expression of mild amusement, veiling potential annoyance.

Her eyes were green, not grey. And wide as lily pads.

Marianne found that she was holding onto the jar of coffee like a crucifix. Heard herself say, “It’s better if you dissolve the granules in the milk first.”

And the woman’s expression tightened, just slightly; a narrowing of the eyes and a twist of the head.

She reached past Marianne, dumped a spoonful of decaf into an empty mug, and doused it directly with a pump of scalding water. She didn’t even stir. She picked up the mug, with long, blunt fingers, and blew across its surface.

“Is that right?” she said, and slurped demonstratively as she turned away.

She went to lean on a windowsill, drinking her coffee, one hand thrust deep into a pocket.

“Marianne,” Sophie whispered. “ _Marianne_?” Cutting across her thoughts.

“Yes?”

“Did you say you wanted milk?”

The meeting was dull, as these official, communal morale-boosters so often are. There were reminiscences of the school year just gone, for which Marianne had not been present, a roster of championships and scholarships and concerts and pantomimes, all of which, it seemed, had been unprecedented successes, and yet all of which could still be bettered, with just a little team work, a little belief, some school spirit, and a willingness to give the best of oneself.

The speech seemed strange in Miss Blanchard’s mouth. As if it were a sacred recipe of hearty word-soup, which no-one dared change, despite its being cloying, and not a little bland. It had the feel of something handed down to her by ruddy-faced forebears, all meaty jowls and rowing blazers; a sacred relic that no-one dared mention was clearly foil and paste. In her distraction, Marianne realised that she was, in fact, surrounded by these professional ancestors, encircled by their staring portraits. Balding most of them, some in ecclesiastical garb, some pictured with their spaniels. All dead, she mused. All that school spirit, reduced to gilt placards, substandard daubs in gaudy frames. Before them, Miss Blanchard looked wired, somehow; almost offensively alive. As if, unleashed, her bubble curls would send the lot of them up in flame.

“Have a good term, everyone,” she finished. “And remember, my door is always open!”

When the meeting broke, the tall woman, the runner, walked off immediately. She talked to no-one, striding through the sea of teachers like a nonchalant Moses. Marianne’s instinct was to crane her neck, to see where the figure went, but the milling crowd became too dense. And Nigel was waving at her.

“Think any more about your club idea?” he asked her, his moustache flexing like a friendly dormouse.

She smiled. “Still thinking,” she confessed.

“Well, why don’t you come by model-making tomorrow?” he offered brightly. “It’s a boarder’s club, but you’ll get the feel for what it’s about. And it’s a great bunch of kids.”

She might have said fine. Or okay. Marianne wasn’t sure. But she definitely got the impression that she had accidentally signed up for something new.

“Model making?” Sophie asked as they walked towards the art block. “Is he still running that? I think he was running that when I was here.”

“He seemed so excited.”

“It was all Airfix Spitfires back then, or I might have been into it. And tanks,” she spat. “I mean, who wants to paint a tank?”

“Wait,” Marianne interrupted, something snagging in her ears.

“Duck shit green all over.”

“Wait,” she repeated, as her brain caught up, “you _went_ here?”

Sophie gave a small shrug. “My whole family went here,” she said. “We’re locals. You look at the school photos sometime. All the brown-eyed, spoon-faced, little bad-asses? Them’s my peeps. Everyone around here knows us.”

“I thought you said you didn’t know anyone,” protested Marianne, feeling strangely betrayed.

Sophie gave her a crooked look. “I don’t,” she said firmly. “I know a whole load of misses and sirs. But I don’t _know_ anyone.” She squared her shoulders. “And they don’t know me.”

Marianne glanced down at her solemn, pale face. And remembered being eighteen. “Fair enough,” she said.

As they approached the art block, they saw a figure, leaning against one of the brick pillars; waiting. She was wearing a dark blue jumper.

The woman launched herself upright as Marianne and Sophie drew nearer, but still didn’t say anything. Nor did her expression alter from its uneasy boredom. Not until Marianne was close enough that she would have been able to reach out and shake hands. Had the hands in question not been rooted firmly in tweedy trouser pockets.

“I was rude earlier,” the woman announced. Her manner was blunt, like her bitten fingernails, and not quite apologetic. Marianne nevertheless found herself smiling.

“Not out loud,” she replied easily. “I’m Marianne,” she said. “Art.”

The woman craned to look up at the portico above them where, in letters four feet high, the word ‘ART’ was moulded into the very concrete. “You don’t say,” she mused, meeting Marianne’s stare with something approaching a smirk. “Héloïse.” Her torso twisted a little on her hips, as if she were debating with herself, before the grin twitched at her mouth again. “Gardening.”

She seemed about to turn and go without another word, when she spotted Marianne’s companion by the double doors. Her eyes narrowed. She paused, as if calculating. Then, “Hello, Sophie,” she said. And strode away.

“You told me you didn’t know her,” Marianne fumed.

“Bullshit,” Sophie scoffed.

“Language.”

“I said I didn’t _see_ her,” Sophie corrected. Their first class was due any second. Nerves were already running high. “I may be many things, but a mind reader, I am not.”

“But, you do,” Marianne reiterated. “You do know her.”

“I mean,” Sophie dissembled, “I know her _a bit_. She went to school with my cousin. She taught me Latin in my last year.”

“She _taught you Latin_?”

“Plus. I mean,” Sophie forged on defensively. “She’s Héloïse. Everyone around here knows Héloïse.”

“I don’t _,_ ” Marianne protested. “Sophie. She may be the only person here my age. Please. A little help. Would be nice. Is all I’m saying.”

The first of the children were lining up outside, laughing and barking together with irrepressible, not to say intimidating, energy. ( _Class 5C. Watch out for Eric Simmonds with the glue. He picks his nose._ )

Sophie caught her eye, and sighed. “She went to school here. She came back after university to teach. Something had… It was all weird. Anyway, she clearly stayed.”

“What happened?” Marianne asked.

“I don’t know,” replied Sophie. And then, seeing Marianne's skepticism, she added, “Properly, genuinely. I don’t.”

Class went well. Surprisingly well. The children had all drawn one, big memory from their summer holidays, and begun to colour them with pastels. There were lots of beaches, a couple of mountains, some grandparents, and, from one small boy called Marcus, a whole page full of chickens; beautiful, detailed, characterful chickens. “Nonny keeps them,” he said in a gravelly voice, annoyed by the distraction of praise.

Marianne shrugged to herself. Nonny. That explained everything.

Next was 6C, the rowdier of the year 6s. ( _Everything has to_ be _something for Chima Wallis. Abstraction makes her sad_.) This term was their portrait project, exploring different mediums. Charcoal first, then acrylic, then intaglio printing, then clay.

“You are going to draw the person opposite you,” Marianne had announced. And immediately there was a deafening vibration of chairs over linoleum, as seemingly the entire class was hit by the revelation that sitting _beside_ their best friends was not what they had really wanted after all.

By some miracle, Marianne had found the tone of voice to instil order.

“Never let them choose their own models,” Abby had told her. “Not unless you want to guide at least three eleven year olds through their dark nights of the soul.”

And then, break time. As the studio emptied, and the forecourt of the art block rang with fifteen sets of liberated legs making a dash for the boot room, Marianne went back to the drying rack, and snuck another look at Marcus’ chickens.

They were really very good.

“Did your predecessor say anything about that boy being crazy gifted?” Sophie asked, looking up from her fixative spraying.

“She’s pregnant, not dead,” Marianne replied. “And you noticed too?”

“What? The tiny Rubens of poultry?” Sophie asked. “Yup. Noticed. Marvelled. Questioned my life choices.”

Marianne smiled, letting the drying rack fall, enjoying the singing of the springs. “Don’t be discouraged, Sophie,” she said. “You also draw beautiful cocks. Coffee?”

From the little kitchen, Marianne could see out across the classroom quad. Break times were staggered, so as to prevent the changing rooms from getting crowded, and years 7 and 8 were just letting out now in ragged, blue streams. The last classroom in the block opposite, partly shielded by lavender and laurel bushes, emptied in a slow column of older boys and girls, sated by summer, not hugely taken with the idea of more running around. They carried their books with the weighty dignity of seniors. Marianne could make out that some of them wore prefect badges, shining on their winter knitwear, heavy authority, probably assigned to them only that morning.

Last to leave the classroom was Héloïse.

Héloïse. She had a name, now. That felt strange.

She strolled along the covered walkway between classrooms, stretching her long arms in front of her, and then above her head with a suppressed yawn. She glanced about herself, gave a little jump, the soles of her shoes barely needing to leave the earth, and grabbed hold of one of the metal cross beams. She swung for an idle moment, like a child on a climbing frame, before dropping onto the cobbles of the quad and strolling easily to a patch of sun, to sit on a flowerbed wall. She was enjoying the autumn morning, with her eyes closed.

And Marianne was watching.

Marianne had been watching her.

Marianne shook herself awake, remembered hazily what it was she was meant to be doing. Coffee. Coffee for two.

And she reboiled the kettle.

She had asked to observe that afternoon’s game of netball. She had done her research, watched match after match of Lanky Women Throwing Things on the internet, until the squeak of trainers and cries of “Obstruction!” haunted her very dreams. But she just wanted to make sure that she knew what she was playing at, before she was handed God’s own whistle, and the power to break dreams. There is nothing more vindictive, nor more lasting, she knew, than the memory of a twelve year old who has suffered injustice. Such authority scared Marianne to death, and she was naturally cautious.

It was the U12 game, and there was a full, beautiful spectrum of sporting enthusiasm on display. Keen eleven year olds dipped and sprinted about, desperate to be noticed, to be promoted to the senior squad, while dreamy girls, spectators on the court, observed the game from Wing Defence, with one tracksuit sleeve between their teeth.

“Contact!” Mrs Badger yelled. “Greens!”

Marianne was sitting on a wooden bench, arms stretched across the back of it, her mind spinning with barely remembered rules.

She could see why Abby might have imagined she was a netball player. She was tall, after all. And her arms were good, from her printmaking years. The short hair probably added to the sporty vibe she had been told, mystifyingly, that she radiated.

Chest pass. Shoulder pass. Only a fool breaks th… Bounce pass. Wait. Obstruction.

The whistle blew. “Obstruction!”

“Yes!” Marianne whispered, her fist clenching involuntarily.

“Which team?”

The voice was low. And quite near. Marianne spun in her seat, to see Héloïse, regarding her with that same, hood-eyed semi-interest.

“I’m sorry?” Marianne said.

She was wearing the waxed jacket from the day before, and a pair of wellington boots which looked as though they would never again be clean. “Greens or yellows?” she said, nodding at the game. “Who are you supporting?”

Marianne laughed. “Oh. I think I’m mainly cheering for Mrs Badger,” she answered.

A half smile in return. “Aren’t we all?”

She stood there. Not speaking. Not even really looking at Marianne. As if waiting patiently for something to begin, or to end maybe, above the shrill shouts and stamping of the game. Marianne did not cope well with other people’s silence.

“Do you take netball too?” she asked, at last.

Héloïse’s face contracted slightly. “I’m not really a team player,” she said.

“Well, I think they’d probably want you to referee,” Marianne explained. “You’re a bit tall.”

This earned another nearly smile. And a rueful raise of the eyebrows. “It’s an umpire. In netball. And, actually, I’ve never been asked,” she confessed.

“Really?” Marianne could not hide her surprise. Or, to be frank, her jealousy. “I thought everyone mucked in here. I was told it was _that sort of place_.”

Héloïse scoffed. “What? Jolly hockey sticks, up the school, and ‘Come on, you Otters’?” Her voice had soured. Marianne felt her face drain, at how withering the tone had become. How disdainful. She risked a glance into Héloïse’s face. The expression was not contemptuous, as she worried it might have been. Or even angry. It was completely empty, which was somehow far, far worse.

But she had said nothing wrong. Whatever this was, Marianne had not begun it. And she felt a sudden boldness in knowing her own innocence. She maintained her stare, undaunted. Almost.

“Was I misinformed?” she asked, keeping her voice level.

Héloïse’s jaw gripped, and her eyes lifted grudgingly to meet the middle distance. “No,” she said quietly, with a sigh of utter resignation. “No. It is that place. It is that place exactly.”

And without another word, she wandered off around the netball court as a light drizzle drifted in, making for the upper school, her hands deep in her anorak pockets.

“Abby, mate.”

“Champ!” The voice over the phone was filled with delight. “You legend! You cherub! Apple of my eye.”

“I’m just checking in,” Marianne said, clamping her phone to her ear, trying her best to do the last of the studio tidying one handed. “Still not popped, then?”

“No.” Abigail sounded glum. “I am _so_ full of baby. You have no sodding idea.”

Marianne tried to imagine. And couldn’t. “I’m sorry.”

She was tidying alone. Sophie had been exhausted, and ravenous. So, of course, bleeding-heart-Marianne had let her go early to catch boarders’ supper in the canteen. She was now bitterly regretting her decision.

“It can’t be long now though,” she commiserated, as she tried to right a whole jam jar of paintbrushes one handed.

Abby let out a dark laugh. “I am setting my vagina timer. Anyway! How was it? How was the first day?”

“Fine, fine.” Scanning the room for further mess and mishaps. “The kids are great. No big issues.” Coat. Keys. Light switch. “That Marcus, though. 5C.”

“Marcus Thompson?”

“Yes. He’s good,” Marianne said. “Very good. I’m surprised you didn’t say anything.”

Abby’s tone was dry as dust. “Chickens?”

Marianne paused as she locked up. “Many, very pretty chickens…” she confirmed.

“It’s always chickens,” Abby sighed. “Marianne. I have tried ducks. I have tried pheasants.I have tried guinea fowl and geese and turkeys. I have tried to get that boy to draw anything. Any blessed thing, other than chickens.”

“Damn,” Marianne groaned. “You might have warned me.” Corridor light off.

“I’m sorry, dude.” Front door double locked. “Just remember: it’s not for lack of trying.” Marianne set off across the quad. She could cut out towards home past the form rooms, round the far side of the music school. “So,” Abby was saying. “Any questions, concerns, deep mysteries?”

“Did you run a club, Abby?”

“A club? No! Dude! I have a two year old.” This was a fair point.

“How is she?” Marianne asked. “Is she excited for the baby?”

Abby groaned. “She has de-potty trained herself. The little bastard!”

“That’s my girl,” Marianne laughed.

“You know, I did take over an animation club when I first started,” Abby said, her voice suddenly nostalgic, remembering a time before other people’s poo. “Which was fun. Lots of plasticine. But the kids got frustrated with how slow it all was. And by the time I went on leave last time, it wasn’t so much a club as a confessional.”

“Not worth reviving?”

“No,” Abby said sadly. “No, champ. Let’s agree that all my art school dreams should finally rest in peace.”

“Amen, mate.”

“You’re not still doing your pinhole paintings, are you?” There was only one light on in the classroom block. “Champ?” And it came from Héloïse’s classroom.

Marianne murmured, “Speaking of deep mysteries.”

“Oooh, yes?”

She was still in there. Sitting at her desk in the far corner. Marking. Her head resting on her right hand, fingers crabbed through wavy, fly-away hair. Green biro.

“Champ? You there?”

“Yes, give me a second.” Marianne walked past the classroom windows as quickly as she could, marching down the covered walkway, grateful for her soft-soled trainers. “Okay,” she whispered. “Okay. Tell me. Héloïse.”

Abby said, “Yes.”

Marianne paused, hunted her conscience, and found she couldn’t quite articulate her own curiosity. “What’s her deal?” she asked, limply.

Abby said, “Latin.”

“Well, I know that.”

“Well, that’s her deal, mate. That’s her… thing.” Something about Abby’s silence made Marianne think her friend was smiling. “But that isn’t what you meant, is it?”

“No,” she confessed. She turned back in the empty walkway, to where the last light in the school glared out across a deserted courtyard. “No, it isn’t.”

“Honestly, we weren’t that chummy,” Abby said. “I mean, she’s nice. We spoke from time to time. But the school was going through a really rough year when I first met her, and there was a lot of talk sloshing about in the staff room. All the gossip probably put her off. She’s not a fan.”

“Of gossip?”

“Not at all.”

“I can’t think why you never clicked.”

“Harsh, dude. But, hey,” Abby said brightly. “That’s why you come to me. Because, secretly, deep down, you want me to tell you all about Héloïse.”

And realisation hit Marianne, a sudden certainty, shocking as a summer shower.

“No,” she said, with a careful carelessness. “No, that’s all right.”

“Are you sure, mate?”

“Yes.”

And in the privacy of her gut, Marianne whispered the part she could never in a million years have said out loud to her friend.

‘Secretly. Deep down. I don’t want to hear it from you.’


	3. Deliberate Accidents

Morning break the next day, and Sophie was clearing up a brown lake with a mop and bucket. All in all, things could have gone better.

It looked a hell of a lot worse than it was. Poster paint. And brush water.

“It was an accident,” Marianne said, as she hastily mopped the table, the chairs. “I think.”

“That,” Sophie replied, squeezing out the mop, “is the fifth time you have said so.”

“I know.”

“And I think it is time to call…”

“Language,” Marianne cautioned.

“COWPATS!” Sophie bellowed. “I call cowpats. He tipped it into her lap on purpose.”

“I know.”

“But she,” Sophie said, between grunts of annoyed effort, “was being mean to him, and you didn’t know how to stop her.”

“I know!”

“Or how to punish either of them.”

“ _I know!_ ”

“And now,” Sophie concluded, slopping the floor for a final time, “we are both cleaning up the consequences.” She huffed, squeezing the mop wetly. “I think we need to schedule an art department tactical meeting, to work on your classroom discipline.”

“I don’t have a discipline problem,” Marianne replied spikily. “I have a nuance problem. She was clearly being vile… Somehow.”

“She was.”

“In a way that she knew she couldn’t be called out on. Because she’s clever.” Her voice was rising. “And people have been stupid enough to tell her that she’s clever.”

“Kids can be horrible,” Sophie said with a shrug. “The bright ones, especially. What do you want to do about it?”

Marianne sighed.

Her first defeat. The one that Abby said she would always remember, that she would groan about at unexpected moments for years to come. And Sophie was disappointed in her; wonderful Sophie; who this morning, over their croissants and tumblr catch up, had said she shouldn’t worry; that she was doing brilliantly.

“What _can_ I do?” Marianne asked, weakly.

Sophie shot her a hard look, before wheeling the mop back to the store cupboard. “First,” she said, “you can make me a coffee, to prove your devotion. And then,” she said, “ _you can teach them_.” She snapped the door closed, marking an end to the argument. “You can teach them something better.”

The kettle seemed to boil quietly that day. It kept clicking without Marianne’s notice, and she reboiled and reboiled, until the little kitchen resembled a swamp. She was staring at nothing. Not even looking out of the window really, just leaning her forehead against the running glass, her eyes blank.

“I’m not a teacher,” she thought, as the boiling water finally made it into the mugs on the fourth time of asking. “Sophie’s more of a teacher than I am. I’m just a painter. What was Abby thinking? What was _I_ thinking?”

She glanced back out of the window, and realised with a lurch of embarrassment that Héloïse was sitting there. That she was perched in the same patch of sun as before, on the curve of the flowerbed wall. A creature of habit. Her jumper today was dark green, and a little baggy. She was looking straight at Marianne, her expression completely fixed.

“Great,” Marianne thought, spinning away from the window with a sudden, inordinate jolt of annoyance, grabbing the mugs, slopping the coffee. Another brown mess. “Bloody perfect.”

The year fours, ( _No information. But beware surprise leaks. The danger is real._ ) were, by comparison, and to Marianne’s enormous relief, a complete delight. After the morning’s excitement, a room full of eight-year-olds playing happily with wool turned out to be an oasis of gently chirruping calm.

“Like kittens,” Sophie whispered at one point, her eyes transformed into chocolate puddles, adorably large over her small, serious mouth.

Marianne poked her in the ribs, and went to help a boy called Toby with his ribbon weaving. He seemed to be made entirely of snot and thumbs.

Halfway through the lesson, a smart rap of knuckles sounded at the studio door. Marianne yanked herself away from trying to untangle whatever Gordian knot Shama Kachroo had managed to conjure from her skein.

And saw Héloïse.

She was standing in the doorway, arm still outstretched from the knock, her brows raised, lips pursed. Her eyes seemed wider somehow to Marianne, and she managed to convey the words, “Not a good time?” with her puckered chin alone. Marianne stood immediately, trailing wool, ribbon, tissue paper. She went over.

“Yes?” she murmured.

“You have streamers,” Héloïse said, her knowing green stare flicking down at Marianne’s top.

“Oh.” Marianne began picking at the hem of her sweater, where static had pinned tails of red and brown wool to her waist. “Well. Fringe is in this season,” she muttered. “Fresh from the catwalks of Paris.”

Héloïse’s voice sliced across her discomfort. “Jodie Postlethwaite says that I should ask you why she is wearing a tracksuit to my class,” she said. Marianne’s attention leapt, and she found herself face to face with the now familiar, slightly arch smile, the questioning pause. “She was with you just before break, wasn’t she?”

“She said what?” Marianne demanded.

Héloïse repeated smoothly, “That I should ask you.”

Marianne remembered the moment of the little girl’s shriek, the brown water soaking her from the tummy down, the boy’s tearful insistence that it had been all a mistake. And his victim’s fury. “Cheeky wee madam,” Marianne heard herself mutter.

And in Héloïse’s eyes this time, she definitely saw something teasing. A proposal. “She is outside,” Héloïse said nonchalantly, “waiting. Not a little surprised that I took her up on her offer.”

Exhausted by the very idea of confrontation, Marianne asked, “Do you know what it might have been about?” Her voice was subdued enough that the little weavers could not hear. “Because I don’t.”

Héloïse nodded once. “I have a pretty good idea.” She did not need to say more. Something about her manner instilled a low-humming confidence. She tilted her head; an invitation. “Shall we go and see if I’m right?”

The girl stood alone in the quad, arms folded just too high over her chest to convey believable defiance. They looked too much like a life vest, clamped around her like that, rising to the chin in cold water.

Héloïse’s tone was easy and natural. “All right, Jodie,” she said. “Here we are, as requested. Now, what exactly am I asking again?”

“Um,” the little girl faltered, looking between the faces of two engaged, interested adults, who, in a spirit of excruciating helpfulness, were only doing exactly what she had requested. “Why my pinafore got all ruined in her class?”

Marianne feigned a confused look. “Oh, I’m afraid I don’t know.” She glanced at Héloïse, caught her eye, before addressing Jodie. “I mean, I know _what_ happened. I turned my back for a second, when you were talking to Charlie Fordyce. And the next thing I know, the brush jar had gone over. But I don’t know _why_.”

“Right over?” Héloïse asked her.

“Completely over.”

“And all over poor Jodie’s dress?”

“Unfortunately.”

“Well, that would explain it,” Héloïse concluded. “That would explain it totally. It was an accident, Jodie. You should have said.”

“No!” Jodie cried, her cheeks colouring with outrage. “He did it on purpose! Charlie meant to do it. You should be telling him off, not me.”

Héloïse’s head snapped round. “Now, why would we be telling you off?” she demanded. “I asked why you were in your sports kit in lesson time. You told me to go and ask the new art lady. (Which was, Jodie, quite rude, but let’s come back to that.) And here we are, following your advice.” Her head cocked to one side. “So why would you think that you’re in trouble?”

Jodie’s face scrunched into awkwardness. “It feels like I am,” she grumbled.

“Does it?” And Héloïse’s voice was suddenly colder. “What were you talking about with Charlie?”

“Nothing,” the little girl muttered. “Nothing. I don’t remember.”

“I do,” Marianne said. “You were talking about your mum, and how much you were looking forward to your picture being finished so you could give it her. And maybe she would put it on the fridge, or frame it even. And was Charlie going to show his mother?”

“Jodie,” said Héloïse, quietly, and seriously, and without any malice whatsoever. The girl’s face paled. And her eyes dropped. “But you know what happened. With Charlie’s mother.”

The little girl twisted on the toes of her shoes, saying nothing.

“She died, Jodie,” Héloïse went on softly. “Last term. You remember? We had that assembly.”

Marianne felt her gut sink. A cold collar, like a steel yoke, gripped her around the ears and throat. She blinked slowly. Swallowed. She was fine.

“I forgot,” came the stifled protest.

She was fine.

“Well, that’s not like you,” said Héloïse. “You remember things. About people.”

Héloïse picked deliberately at her fingers for a moment. “Jodie, losing a parent is hard,” she said, frowning. “Really hard. It can be hard enough when you’re a grown up. And it happened to Charlie when he was only ten. Can you imagine?”

A shake of the head.

“No. Neither can I.” She leaned on the pillar, her hands deep in her pockets. “And it’s hard enough to be reminded all the time,” she said. “But, what can be even harder, is when other people forget. Because when people forget, they take all your feelings; all your pain, your sadness, your anger; the worst feelings you’ve experienced in your entire life, and say that none of them matter.

“And worse, they take the whole, entire person that you loved, and say that it makes no difference whether they’re around or not.”

Marianne wondered, watching Héloïse.

Did she feel it too? The same cold grip about the skull? An emptiness, so familiar it had become a cave in which to hide? She must do.

Héloïse was trying to catch the girl’s eye, to make sure that she had listened. “Jodie?” she said. “Can you see how hurtful that is? Did you _mean_ to hurt Charlie like that?”

A shake of the head that twisted the whole body.

“Do you think it might be good to apologise? For hurting him? Even accidentally?”

A nod that arched the entire spine.

“Good.” Héloïse stood up.

Marianne caught the look she cast over the little girl. Distaste. Compassion.

Jodie Postlethwaite. 7L. _Nice underneath it all._

“Do you need to wash your face?” Héloïse asked her quietly.

A ‘yes’ emerged in a little croak.

“In the art block then. Go on.”

The girl scampered inside, slamming doors apart and hiding her face, her pony tail waving like a white flag as she dashed away.

Marianne waited until the child was out of earshot. “Brutal,” she murmured.

“Necessary,” came the reply. “She has previous.” Héloïse narrowed her eyes, boring into the innards of the building as if she could follow a vapour trail of the child’s embarrassment. “You know those memories of shame,” she asked suddenly, “the ones that wake you groaning in the middle of the night?”

Marianne nodded. “You think this will be one of hers?”

“With any luck.” Héloïse turned on her heel, rubber grating on the cobbles, hands back in pockets. “Would you send her over when she’s finished? No rush. Let her take her time.”

“Of course,” Marianne answered. And then, just as Héloïse’s back had rounded completely, “So, you were right, were you?”

She turned. A cheeky smile. “Too clever for my own good.”

Smug, thought Marianne. And went inside.

She found Jodie, her face mottled but no longer puffy. She was emerging from the lavatory; the staff lavatory; the lavatory that was very clearly marked ‘Staff only’. On seeing Marianne, the girl’s expression tempered into a glassy shine. “There’s moisturiser in there,” she said.

“I know,” Marianne replied, trying, under the circumstances, to restrain her annoyance. “I bought it. For me.” She took a deep breath. “You should ask first.” She wondered if this child had been taken home from the hospital in a turtle neck and pearls, eyeing up the world from her crib; a bouncing, baby venture capitalist.

Well. The girl had time, at least. To learn something better.

“Are you all right?” Marianne asked her. “Are you ready to go back to Latin?”

“Yes.” Jodie smiled. And then she said, “Thank you.” Something about her tone pinched at the ear.

If only, Marianne thought, if only I was just a little more experienced. She looked at the child, and asked carefully, “What for?”

“For being so nice.” The same smile. “I’m just sorry that Charlie and I made such a mess.”

Marianne nodded. “Well,” she said. “Messes can be cleaned up. Can’t they? And apologising to Charlie will go a lot further than apologising to me.”

That smile, again. Bright and winning. “All right!”

Marianne opened the double doors for her. “Off you go, then, Jodie.” And watched as the girl trotted across the quad between classrooms, remembering Abby’s words as she caught the scent of her own hand cream on the air. “Don’t worry about liking them. Or them liking you. Liking is for equals. Teaching is connection.”

Model making club turned out to be a lot of fun. The children sat in the DT building, gluing together delicate figurines of hell beasts and demon lords, to be baptised in fluorescent tinctures of alien blood and bile.

“Ugh, Sammy!” Marianne laughed delightedly, as one girl showed off her brigade of Pesti-lancers, all beautifully painted in body-horror green and septic pink. “They’re disgusting!” she said.

The girl looked at her creations with inordinate pride. “They’re undefeated.”

Gruesome though the models were, Marianne had to admit that they were nicely proportioned, and skilfully designed. Like something by Hieronymus Bosch, she thought. But with submachine guns. And chainsaws.

That was someone’s job, she thought; to sculpt whimsical nightmares, to imagine and draw and mould from clay, something to be cast in grey plastic chunks; with the option of a staff, or a flaming broadsword; of one head, or two. She considered what a strange world it was. But she smiled at the thought, as another pot of slick, red paint was gleefully shaken and opened with a pop.

“What colour is that, Dominic?” she asked.

The boy checked his reference sheet. “‘Altar Gore,’” he said.

Marianne laughed. “Of course it is.”

“For a club,” Nigel was telling her, “you want something that’s both making and doing, if you can manage it. Here, they get to make the models first and then, later in the year, when they’re all finished, we play war games with them.”

“Elven ghosts versus vomit goblins, you mean?”

He had chuckled. “Well, perhaps the vomit goblins aren’t everyone’s cup of tea,” he allowed, “but it’s a lot of fun. And we use the landscaping from the model railway club.”

“What do the model railway people think of that?” Marianne joked. “Being invaded by…” She picked up a nearby box. “… the Sputumous Dead?”

“Ah, sadly, it is no more,” he said. “You stay here long enough, and you’ll find the clubs come and go. Round and round! And no-one seems to like model railways at the moment.” He sounded a little wistful. “Pity.”

From the window of the workshop, as she helped pack up, Marianne saw the light in Héloïse’s classroom finally go out. The bell had just sounded eight o’clock.

Long day, she thought.

Héloïse herself swung out of the door a moment later. She locked up in one smooth, practised movement and strolled off down the walkway, a running backpack slung over her shoulder. As she went, she incorporated a little skip into every other stride, so that she could pat the beams overhead with the tips of her fingers as she passed.

Marianne had seen the year seven boys trying this earlier in the day. None of them could reach.

Tang.

Tang.

Tang.

She fancied she could hear the sound of hollow metal, ringing out, further and further into the dark.

“I still see that door open and… do a double take, you know?” Nigel startled her. He was shaking his head, with a sorrowful air that Marianne could not quite place. And in a cramped voice that allowed for no questions, he muttered, “She’s so like him.”

“Altar Gore?” Sophie exclaimed.

“I thought you’d like that,” chuckled Marianne.

“Altar Gore?”

Sophie tipped her head back between mouthfuls of croissant, and gaped, confounded, at the studio ceiling. “If I had known,” she said in an awed murmur, “if I had only known _earlier_ in my artistic career, that somewhere in this crazy-beautiful world, there was a colour called ‘Altar Gore’…” She ripped off a hank of pastry with impassioned teeth. “I would not be studying illustration, Marianne. No. I would dedicate my _life_ to this shade! I would be the Yves Klein of ‘Altar Gore’. I would paint red canvas after glossy red canvas, to be hung in the Tate, in MoMA, in the Pompidou…”

“It’s such a ten-year-old boy name, though, isn’t it?” Marianne commented seriously. “It just screams, ‘Painting-isn’t-for-wimps-dickhead-now-get-out-of-my-room.’”

“To be fair, you can’t paint blood and guts with a shade called ‘cherry blush’,” Sophie declared firmly. “You just can’t.”

“And you,” Marianne pointed out, “wouldn’t dedicate a career to a cherry blush either.”

“Not on canvases as big as I’m thinking.”

“Ah!” said Marianne, spotting a flaw in the plan. “But the pots, Sophie. They’re teeny tiny.”

Sophie’s face fell like an anvil. “How teeny tiny?”

Marianne tipped her head, pityingly. “Very teeny tiny. Glorified thimbles. And _very_ expensive.”

“I don’t want to know how expensive, do I?” Sophie said, her eyes imploring.

Marianne chuckled. “No, future impoverished student. You do not.”

“Ugh,” Sophie groaned. “Foiled by capitalism! I suppose I’d better just…”

“… keep drawing.”

Sophie scrunched up the paper bag and threw it into the bin. “Keep drawing.”

“When do I get to see your portfolio?” Marianne asked with a cheeky grin. “Your safe-for-work portfolio, I mean.”

Sophie shunted off her seat, her hackles up. “When I am cold,” she said dangerously. “And dead. And my name has been blotted out from the book of life by the weary passage of millennia.”

“Okay, okay.”

“And the dust on the pages of the book of life has thickened into sand dunes.”

“I get it!”

“Into deserts, spanning the whispering globe.”

“Sophie!”

It was a damp morning; not raining exactly, certainly not sufficiently wet for the declaration of indoor break. But if you stood outside for long enough, you found that the hanging mist had a weight to it.

So when Marianne glanced out of the kitchen window, she was surprised to see Héloïse, sitting in her usual spot on the flowerbed wall. She was in her anorak, but the hood was down, and her face was tipped up to the grey square of sky soaring between classrooms. Her large hands were clasped between her knees, awkward, fidgeting.

Marianne made a decision.

“Coffee?”

The green eyes flickered a little, as if they had been summoned home from a great distance.

Héloïse stared for a moment; at the proffered mug, at Marianne, her coat, her raised hood; as if she were trying to tease something through, wary of a misunderstanding. She raised her hand to the presented coffee gradually; a cat sniffing the fingers that wished to pet it.

“It’s decaf,” Marianne reassured her.

“Thank you,” said Héloïse, accepting the mug at last. She glanced at the design with one raised eyebrow. “‘Art. I’m in it for the Monet’,” she read. And snorted.

Marianne smiled. “It’s one of Abby’s,” she explained. “I won’t disturb you. But you looked as though you might be cold.”

“I don’t really get cold,” Héloïse said, with a shrug. Before adding, “And you aren’t disturbing me.”

Marianne scuffed her foot over the smooth cobbles, wondering about the generations of trainers, shoes, plimsols, boots, that had worn them to a speckled shine. All those lives, beating against the fabric of a place, like the sea, carving out caverns. “I did want to say thank you,” she admitted. “For yesterday.”

Héloïse frowned. “Oh, that,” she said. She slurped at her coffee, eyes completely averted. “No problem.”

Marianne wanted to ask her, about the emptiness. But it was too soon. The revelation had been artificial and, without intimacy, she knew this need in her was just another kind of lust; surging wildly at strangers. She could see the mist beginning to gather and pearl in the pale wisps of Héloïse’s hair, on her long eyelashes, the soft wool of her jumper where the anorak opened beneath her throat. Cream cable knit, today. Over a dark blue shirt.

“I didn’t do it for you,” Héloïse said, her voice fogged.

“No, of course,” Marianne replied.

“I just don’t like being able to see it happening.”

It was Marianne’s turn to frown. “See what?” she asked.

Héloïse winced up at the grey heaven. “Apples. Trees. Sins of the father.” After a long pause, she asked in a distant voice, “Marianne, are you busy this afternoon?”

Marianne felt her stomach drop with the reminder. “I am umpiring my very first netball practice,” she said.

Darkly, Héloïse laughed, her throat still stretched skywards. “ _Bonne chance_ , _”_ she said. _“Courage. Et cetera.”_

“Thank you.” Marianne sipped at her own coffee, following her companion’s gaze towards the threatening clouds. “What are the chances of games being cancelled?”

Héloïse winced. “For this?” she said. “Less than zero. In this kind of weather, they schedule _extra_ games. Toughen them up.”

“Jolly hockey sticks and up the school?” Marianne asked.

“Precisely.”

There was a pause in their conversation, that didn’t feel awkward so much as full. And again, Marianne felt the old, fatal instinct to burst the surface; to show the strange blistered parts of herself; ask lethal questions; like, ‘Is this normal?’ ‘Am I doing this wrong?’ ‘You too?’.

_Don’t be weird, Marianne. You’re being so weird._

“Well, I should,” she sighed, “go and set up for the next one.”

“It does get easier,” Héloïse told her.

Marianne stopped. Frowned. Laughed. At the woman’s bluntness. At herself, for being transparent. She finished her coffee and shook the dregs out into the flower bed. “When does it?” she asked, and even to her own ears, her voice sounded plaintive.

“Monday,” Héloïse replied. “That’s when you realise that the weeks have a rhythm to them, here. That things keep going. Whether you mean for them to or not.”

Marianne was nodding. Curious, suddenly, she said, “Why did you ask?” The question dallied between them for a moment. “Whether I was busy?”

“I just wondered if you’d like the tour?” said Héloïse, rubbing at her trouser leg. The weather must have been making its presence felt at last.

“Miss Blanchard showed me round,” Marianne replied. “Last week.”

Héloïse’s eyes flashed up at her, something within them bold and bristling, as if they were hunting for the mockery, for the joke at her expense. But their suspicion lasted only for a second. Then, she softened. And she looked almost guilty. She muttered, “Different tour.”

Her tone was so terse, that Marianne let herself wonder for just a moment. Before taking a deep breath. “Saturday?” she suggested.

Héloïse seemed to blunder in her thoughts. “I’m driving the minibus,” she said, a little too quickly. “But…”

Marianne nodded. Encouraged. “Monday, then?”

“Afternoon?” Again, those eyes, looking for the catch, for the hidden snare. Finding nothing. “Sure.”

“Great.” Marianne smiled. She turned to go. “See you later, then.”

Héloïse called after her, “When shall I return the Monet?”

Marianne looked over her shoulder to where Héloïse was thrusting out the mug, like a nervous uncle left holding a newborn. Marianne smiled.

“Whenever,” she said. “Whenever you like.”


	4. A Short Ride

Monday morning came around quickly.

“Where the fuck are the fucking bulldog clips?”

With classes on Saturday, the weekend had seemed very short to Marianne.

“Do we need bulldog clips?”

Since Saturday had been curtailed anyway, she hadn’t seen any reason not to go and watch the U13s in their first match of the year.

“I need one for…” Sophie pulled out the last possible drawer in the rack. The one marked ‘clips’ “… ah! Found them!”

 _Up the school_ , and all that.

Sophie twirled her long, brown hair into a bun, and fastened it with the metal jaws. “Can’t stand it in my eyes. I should cut it. Like yours. How was the game?”

The girls had been so insistent when they had asked. “Please, come and watch! It’s against Beverley House! It’s really important!”

“I’ll try.”

“Please come.”

“I will try.”

And Mrs Badger had thought it was a good idea. “Show of support,” she said. “Show of spirit. Just the thing.” She was not a woman of many words, and tended to emit them in short, firm bursts; whistle blasts, demanding obedience. “The girls will like it.”

So, Marianne had brought a flask of tea, and worn a scarf in the school blue. She had deliberately hung back from the huddle of mothers, bearing down on the court’s edge, feeling instinctively that she wouldn’t fit. Afterwards, she forever thought of them as the gymkhana crowd. She had never heard such plummy yelling in all her life.

“Gooo for it, Jessie! Yaas, Harriet out wide! Ahhhht wide! To Penny! Good effort, Mirandaaaah!”

Marianne preferred to sit on her usual bench, alone, with a good view of the court, and without the embarrassment of unequal conversation. She actually enjoyed herself. The day was fine. Dry. Not too cold. And the girls were playing well. Esme McKinnon made a very tricky shot, off balance, from right at the edge of the circle, and Marianne let out a whoop, leaping to her feet and clapping.

“Yes!” she yelled. “ _Come_ on, Otters!”

A couple of surprised faces turned to stare at her; an unfamiliar voice in a close knit band, perhaps. But Esme gave her a huge double thumbs up and screamed excitedly. “YES! Otters! Go! Let’s _go!_ ”

“Where did you pick that up?” Mrs Badger had asked Marianne afterwards, as they gathered the tabards and mislaid kit. “The Otters. No-one’s called them that for years.”

Marianne blinked, surprised. By the end of the match, everyone had been yelling it. The girls had even chanted it victoriously, after the final whistle and the hip hip hurrays. “It seemed obvious,” she said. “I mean, Otterbourne Prep.” She shrugged. “Maybe these things go in cycles.”

“Maybe,” Mrs Badger agreed, her eyes narrowed. “Well. On your head be it,” she barked, “when they all demand sweatshirts.”

“It was good,” Marianne said, finishing her croissant and licking the flakes from her thumbs. “They played well. I think. I mean,” she shrugged, “they won.”

“The only metric of consequence,” Sophie declared. “Winning! Uh! Yes! I love it!”

“Are you… competitive, Sophie?” Marianne teased. “God, I would never have guessed, if you hadn’t said anything.”

In an instant, Sophie was right up in her face, her baby complexion completely flawless, her naturally unsmiling expression, deadly. “See these eyes?” she asked, indicating two luminous brown orbs. “These apparently innocent, labradoodle eyes?” She sniffed. “They’re the eyes of a killer.”

Marianne couldn’t help laughing. “I don’t want to know,” she insisted.

“Good,” replied Sophie. “Because, if I told you, I’d just have to kill you too. And I like you,” she said, patting Marianne on the shoulder. “You’re funny. You’re a funny lady.”

Marianne moaned. “Come on,” she said, brushing Sophie off like a rowdy cub. “Hustle time.”

“By the way,” Sophie said, as they set up easels together for the year fives, “he spoke to me on Sunday.”

“Who?” Marianne asked, distracted. “Mark, was it? Mike?”

“Miles,” Sophie confirmed. “At dinner. He said, and let me think about this for a minute, because I want to get it right. He said, and I quote, ‘Hey.’”

Marianne laughed. “Shall I buy a hat?” she asked smoothly. “Or a ticket to Vegas?”

Sophie smiled at her. There was a little, tiny blush to it, before the habitual bravado swept back. “Sin City, baby!” she crowed. “One way!”

Héloïse came and knocked on the kitchen window at break time. She was holding the Monet mug, and wore an expression that could only be described as uncomfortable.

“I keep forgetting to bring this back,” she said quickly, when Marianne had worked out how to fully open the sash. “Thank you. Sorry.”

“Do you want a refill?” Marianne asked. “The kettle’s just boiled.”

Héloïse’s eyes widened, even as her mouth pursed further, as if stunned to have been asked. As if there were a stone, lodged in the shoe of their conversation, one that she longed to shake out. “Sure?”

Marianne took the mug from her. “Decaf black?” A slow nod. “I’ll bring it out.”

“I can wait,” Héloïse replied. She had her hands in her back pockets, stood sunk into one hip. Chelsea boots this week. Smooth. Polished to a woody shine.

“I was thinking about coming out anyway,” Marianne offered. “Day’s nice.”

She saw Héloïse’s eyes drop to the ground, her lips huff just a little. Was she embarrassed? Her jumper was a dark maroon today, v-necked. Maybe its colour was just reflecting, blooming, on her pale skin.

“I should,” Héloïse muttered, “do some marking. Really. I’m a bit behind.”

“Oh.”

Her face flashed up, responding to the note of disappointment. “If we’re still on for this afternoon,” she said. “I just have to clear some time.” She coughed slightly, recoiling from her own haste. “I mean, it’s no trouble. I mark really fast. When I need to.” There was another of those pauses, which Marianne was beginning to recognise; the face averted, the gaze darting aside, the escape hatch courteously demonstrated. “Or, we could just have coffee now. If you’d prefer.”

“I was looking forward to the tour,” Marianne replied firmly.

And the face at the window brightened immediately, before flaring into panic. “Really?”

Marianne nodded gently. “Yes.”

And the panic settled, somewhere between disbelief and pleasure. “Okay.”

The weather was calm.

They strolled out together towards the classroom walkway, the school seeming very still and empty. The children were all changing for games; grubby little butterflies waiting to emerge, rolling, into the muddy turf.

Marianne stopped under the arch. “Wait. I want to try something.”

She jumped for a metal beam, grabbed it easily. Dangled, happily kicking her legs. Héloïse watched her, a small smile on her lips.

“Now, you’re a senior,” she said.

Marianne laughed, delightedly. “Really?”

“You can be considered for prefect, for head boy.”

“That’s not really a thing?”

Héloïse shrugged. “Used to be.” She indicated the beam behind her, the central section rubbed smooth to a glass finish. “That’s the official one,” she said. “It’s the same height as all the others, of course, but more exposed. Everyone can see you trying. And trying.”

“That’s the one you like,” Marianne noted. She dropped to the ground, dusted her hands, to find that Héloïse’s face had a caged look to it suddenly, her head tilted to one side.

“Closet traditionalist,” she murmured.

“That’s the Chalk,” she said, pointing to a woody copse in the far corner of the field, where the pitches met the tennis courts. “Just the groundsman’s dump really, but you can find grass snakes in the compost, and slow worms in the summer. Then, there’s Treetops,” she said, pointing along the beech hedge which marked the school boundary, to a thicket of yew bushes. “Some excellent climbing, if you’re under five feet tall. Good cover, too, for manhunt. The Hive.” A little, thatched pavilion, double sided, looking out Janus-like, over two adjoining fields. “And Four Trees.” Literally, four, massive beech trees, planted square, like the spots on a dice.

“Good name.”

“Does the job.” Héloïse agreed. “It’s used as a base, for forty-forty; that sort of thing.”

“What’s forty-forty?” Marianne asked, swinging her feet over the dewy grass, glad she had changed into trainers. The children were just beginning to jog out onto the field behind them, tumbling from of the boot room in an assortment of tracksuit hues. Mrs Badger had told her the different colours were earned; matches played, teams represented, caps won. You could tell the un-sporty kids a mile off, trapped shamefully in the official Otterbourne blue.

“You never played forty-forty at your school?” Héloïse asked her.

“Which one?” Marianne asked. She smiled at the confusion. “I moved around a lot. And, no. Never heard of. Never played. No idea what you’re talking about.”

“It’s a hiding, sneaking, running, capture, rescue kind of game.”

“Can we play now?” Marianne asked, at which Héloïse laughed.

“You need at least five,” she said, “for it to work well. You need an ‘it’ and then several runners and… Really, you never played?”

Marianne said, “There weren’t that many good hiding places at my schools.”

“No?”

“No,” she reiterated. “No trees.”

Héloïse looked around them both, seeming to survey the green playing fields, which rolled away from them, spread before the elegant shapes of the brick school buildings, spilling over the tiers of the hill. And beyond them, farmland surged to a white horizon, ready for autumn, dusted with poppies and cornflowers. And everywhere they looked, there were trees, garrisoning the boundary between this pitch and that; shielding the school from the road, from the village beyond. Silvery birches paraded at the top of the small bank down to the running track. Young beeches marked either end of the steep banks beyond the cricket boundary. The oldest tree on the grounds, the Problem Oak, squatted in exactly the wrong place for everything the board of governors ever wanted to change, smugly protected by law, Miss Blanchard had grumbled.

Trees everywhere.

Héloïse’s eyes dropped for a moment.

Then, she frowned, grimacing, as if trying a little too hard not to smile. “Well, what would you like to see?”

Marianne smiled back. “The lot.” Héloïse laughed again. “Well, it’s the tour, isn’t it?” Marianne demanded. “Don’t you try to short change me!”

“We might not have time,” her guide warned.

“We can make a beginning, at least.”

They were strolling along the boundary hedge towards the junior school, passing by a couple of games of hockey, the shouts and slaps of eager, messy play punctuating their sparse conversation. “You went to school here,” said Marianne. She was running her hand over the browning leaves as they went, enjoying the rustle, the scratch against her palm. Her companion nodded, mouth tight. “Did anybody else? On the staff, I mean?”

Héloïse chuckled at the idea. “No,” she said. “I mean, we’ve had a couple of gap year kids from time to time.”

“Sophies of yore.”

“Quite. But, the people who can afford to send their children here don’t tend to encourage them into teaching.” Héloïse stuck out an arm, swung around a birch tree, as they passed, leaning out precariously, and with utter confidence. “It’s not a very good return on investment.”

“Seems pretty good to me.” Marianne looked at their surroundings. “Any parent would at least be happy to know you’re in such a beautiful place.” In turning away, she realised she had been watching Héloïse’s features for quite some time. The thought confused her. Made her reluctant to look back again. “Didn’t you like it here?”

“It was complicated.”

The intuitive eyes were staring into her. Marianne needed to be moving, she found. She walked on. She asked over her shoulder, “Any particular reason?”

But instead of following, instead of answering, Héloïse suddenly demanded, “How much of this have you already seen?”

The question took Marianne by surprise. It hadn’t seemed to matter before, if what they were seeing was new to her. But she held her own. “The grounds? I’ve walked round them,” she said. “On my own. And Miss Blanchard waved in their general direction,” she added. “Through her study window. I think she assumed I would figure it out for myself.”

“She does that,” Héloïse acknowledged. She teetered between the heels and toes of her boots, for a moment, her hands in her pockets. At last, she sighed. “You know she’s my mother?” she asked.

And the equation balanced all at once. One banana plus one banana did indeed equal two bananas: and for Marianne the solution was both breathtaking and simple.

Sophie.

She was going to murder Sophie.

“No,” she said. “I didn’t know.”

Héloïse shrugged. “I grew up here. I mean,” she laughed drily, “I was literally born here. Fell out on the sickbay floor, they tell me.”

“So, while you were a pupil,” Marianne said slowly, “your mother was on the staff?”

She nodded. “And my father,” she said. “Before he died.”

“I’m sorry.”

Héloïse straightened up, frowned at a distant football game, played by tiny pips of people, still all running after the ball like a bundle of puppies. Then, quite suddenly, she locked eyes with Marianne, speaking softly. “It was a few years ago,” she said. “And very sudden.” She breathed, not entirely steadily. “I had taken over his teaching, when he first… There wasn’t time to find anyone else. And then…”

You never left.

Marianne allowed a moment of silence for her, stepped aside at the cavern’s entrance, in case she wanted to cut and run, in case it was not the moment to explore the darkness after all. But Héloïse said nothing. She was waiting for Marianne to take her turn. Because she must have known already what was coming.

In the end, Marianne blurted it out without really thinking. “My mother died when I was seven.”

Héloïse just stood there, in her red jumper, wisps of her pale hair blowing from where her bun was loose, gazing, as if she could see into the dim emptiness, see something dwelling there she recognised.

Marianne shrugged under her stare, laughed a little. “I hated school.”

“Should we get back, do you think?”

They had fallen into comfortable silence as they walked. Their freedom was limited, and what needed to be said next took so much time.

“We’re five minutes from the art block,” Héloïse replied. “Can’t you tell?”

Marianne looked about herself in confusion. “You led me on such a loop.”

“You get used to it.”

“The loops?” They rounded a corner, and were suddenly on a gravel path that Marianne recognised: the side entrance of the old building, by the sick bay, and the old pay phones, dusty for decades.

“It will all make sense,” Héloïse said, opening the door for her, “after a while.”

“It’s beginning to.” They walked out into the school building, weaving through the pool tables, where the children who were excused sport relaxed, read comics or plastic shrouded library books.

Marianne asked, “So, when do I get to see the rest of it?”

Héloïse frowned a little, smiled. “You really want to?”

“Of course.”

“How much do you want to see?”

Marianne smiled, unsure of what to make of Héloïse’s hesitation. “I already told you,” she replied. “Everything.”

They were outside the art block, and Marianne could not remember how that had happened. Lockers, frayed blue carpet, Victorian tile in red, black and white, a glass door.

And Héloïse was standing with her hands in her back pockets again, one leg crooked like an eyebrow.

And, somehow, Marianne couldn’t quite decide if they had made friends on that walk of theirs; if that was something adults did together; played during break time and just decided that, yes: you. She did not even know if ‘friend’ was quite the right word. Allies, perhaps. Kindred spirits, if she were feeling sappy. But she knew that she wanted there to be more. More walks, yes. But more talking. More Héloïse.

More time.

“Have they roped you into doing a club yet?” Héloïse asked.

“Not yet,” Marianne confessed. “But, I have some ideas.”

“So, your evenings are free?” Not so much a question as a conclusion, drawn confidently.

“Yes.”

“We should still have some light at 6:30. Until the clocks change.” Again, not quite an invitation.

Marianne felt confusion tumble over her face. “But you work late,” she said. And she knew as she said it, that it had been an admission, of more than she had meant to reveal.

Héloïse smiled. Flattered. Or vindicated. “I do,” she said. “But some days, I take a dinner break and a stroll.”

Marianne forged through her embarrassment. “On Wednesdays?”

“Sometimes on Wednesdays, yes.”

They were both smiling now. “Good,” said Marianne. And, wanting that to be it, suddenly, wanting to keep the full feeling of there being more to say, just a few cards in her hand for the next time, she turned to go. “Wednesday it is.”

“I’ll see you tomorrow, though?”

Marianne smiled at the question. The school was tiny. Not seeing one another would have taken a real effort. And asking had been another kind of admission.

“Of course,” she said. “Morning coffee.” As if that were a given. Because she knew, all of a sudden, that it would be.

Classes with the year eights were a little more relaxed than the others. Giving them materials did not feel as though one were inviting a hostage situation, for a start.

“Find an easel, everyone, and open your sketch books, please. Still life exercise. Emphasis on the ‘still’, Nicola.”

An arrangement of Sophie’s design; different materials, textures, shapes. A spray of dried flowers; a vase; a rabbit’s skull; the fur collar from a vintage dress; an Action Man doll.

“If anybody needs help, just raise your hands.”

“Can we have some music on?” Harriet Graham asked. _Known her since she was seven. Perfectly sweet._ _Still no opinions to speak of._ “Mrs Witts let us listen to music sometimes.”

Marianne glanced at the clock. There didn’t seem to be any harm. “All right,” she said, pairing her laptop to the speaker system, “but I’m the DJ and I don’t take requests.” There was a ripple of excitement through the room. Except from a boy called Callum, who scoffed loudly, “But no classical, though!”

Marianne turned her head. “And why not?” she asked, her eyes already twinkling.

He snorted again. “Classical’s boring.”

Marianne checked herself. From the other side of the room, Sophie had spotted her expression, goaded by a challenge. “Settle down,” she said into the roused classroom.

Sophie’s face was pleading. Eyes large. Mouth fixed. This could be make or break the project of cool, Marianne suspected.

But music was an area where she had been forced to make too many compromises for too much of her life.

_What’s this? What the fuck’s this? You like dark stuff, Marianne? You like this death music_

_Why don’t you lighten up, mate? Don’t listen to this. Come on, it’s upsetting you._

_Marianne. Turn it off. Marianne! Fuck’s sake! I can’t cope with this right now!_

She scrolled through her music library. And found John Adams, already knowing which track she wanted, feeling the excitement in her hands, the conviction, as she clicked play.

From the moment the wood block started its repetitive tick, there were confused glances from around the studio, heads turning towards the speakers, surprised giggling.

“Settle!” Marianne instructed.

The syncopated brass, the insistent rhythm of the snare. She could see heads trying to nod, being wrong-footed by the cross rhythms, by the unexpected five fours, the skip of the heart, the faltered breath. By the entry of the bass drum, they were sold.

“What is it?”

“What does it sound like?” Marianne asked.

The awkward minor thirds oscillating in the bass; the movement from threat, to thrill, to blind panic.

“Horses,” someone said.

“Superman.”

The breaking down of structure within the brass, juddering, shaking, but still held together, only just, only just barely, by the endless ticking of the woodblock, the momentum hurtling almost uncontrolled towards a discombobulated fanfare in the trumpets; the screeching woodwind, dissolving from shuddering takeoff into smooth flight. The almost unnoticed moment when the ticking moved from the harsh percussion into the softer strings, the piece finally beginning to soar, wobbling on uncertain wings.

“Yeah! It sounds like film music.”

Marianne nodded. “Or does film music sound like this?”

They kept listening. Until the syncopated brass finally broke away, untethered from the metronomic strings at last, shouting the final fanfare, carolling triumphantly into the dead silence of the final drum beat.

“Speed,” Callum said afterwards, his head very still. “Like a race car. Like a rocket. It sounds like speed.”

Marianne disconnected from the speakers. “It’s called _Short Ride in a Fast Machine_. So, well done, Callum. Quiet for the last fifteen minutes, everyone.” The room fidgeted back into a semblance of calm.

“Nice,” Callum said to himself.

Marianne had to ask him. She couldn’t resist. “Boring?”

He looked at her, his big grey eyes trying so hard to appear non-committal. He shrugged, went back to his drawing. But she could see him twitching in his seat, to the flicker of a speedometer, to the remembered rhythm of an engine’s roar.

Sophie caught her eye, as the last pupil trundled out of the studio for biscuit break and prep. There was a long moment of silence between them.

Then, Sophie nodded.

“Cool,” she said.

“Sure?” Marianne asked. “Not very, very, very nerdy?”

“Oh, nerdy as _fuck_ ,” Sophie declared, rolling her eyes. “But. Also cool.”

“Stone the crows, champ!” Abby was laughing at her down the phone. “Adams? You played them John bloody Adams?”

“They seemed to like it,” Marianne replied. “Some of them really responded. I might try again.”

Abby cackled. “With more Now That’s What I Call Atonal Postmodern Symphonic?”

“Now, wait just a second. Adams,” Marianne corrected her, “is not atonal.”

“Champ. Champ, champ, champ…I played them Enya, okay?” Abby confessed in a hoarse whisper. “And a little bit of Einaudi. Whale song, when the spirits were really high.”

“You wanted them to be calm,” Marianne chuckled, locking up, “or comatose?”

“Oooh, is that judgement? Do I hear… judgement, from the brand new baby teacher? Just wait,” her friend said darkly. “You just wait until they can smell half term approaching. Much more of the jazzy, angular shit you like, and they’ll be tearing the doors off and running for the hills.”

Marianne headed out across the quad, keys in pocket, bag over shoulder. Heading home on a Monday night, checking in with Abby. This place really did have a pattern to it. “I can send you the link, if you like,” Abby was offering. “I call it my reiki massage dolphin mega mix.”

“Bless you,” Marianne purred. “But. I’ll be fine. Thank you.”

The light was on in Héloïse’s classroom.

Of course it was. It was barely seven o’clock. She’d be here for another hour at least.

Marianne could see her, marking, her hair down again. Why did she let it down to mark? Marianne wondered. An urge took her. She banged on the glass of the window as she walked past. Watched as the eyes lifted in surprise, the pink mouth doing its perfect startled rosebud thing.

Marianne waved as she passed by the door.

“What was that?” Abby asked.

Héloïse opened her hand, a single flat palm, biro cigarette-suspended, bidding Marianne goodnight.

“Nothing,” Marianne replied. “Just… saying bye to Héloïse.”

“Héloïse.” There was a moment of silence on the phone. “You two getting on?”

“Yes,” Marianne replied quickly. Before checking herself, feeling out the wrinkle of that particular question. “Kind of? We went for a walk today.”

“A walk.”

“Yes.”

“Just the two of you?”

“She was showing me round.”

Another loaded silence. Marianne wanted to change the subject, without understanding why, because, really, there was no subject, and also there was nothing to say, and it wouldn’t be anyone’s business if there were, and she was just about to ask after the bump when Abby said, “You know that she’s… I mean, I don’t know for sure. I never knew her to… date anyone, actually. But, I mean, you can see that she’s…”

“Yes. She’s gay. I know.”

And Marianne said it all so quickly, that the truth of her words, and their full implication, only really hit home after she had said them out loud.

“I mean,” Abby went on slowly, “like I said, I don’t know for sure…” But of course she did. And she was. And Marianne had known. She had clearly known.

“It’s fine.” Marianne interrupted. And it _was_ fine. It was absolutely fine.

“Fine.”

“Fine?”

“Just.” Abby sighed. “She’s been through a lot.”

So have I, thought Marianne. Fuck you. So have I. “It was just a walk, Abby.”

“Good. I’m glad.” And then. “I think she could do with a friend.”

Why did that word make Marianne feel sick? Just a little, with something like regret. If you could regret something that didn’t exist, something that hadn’t happened, and probably wouldn’t.

“I think so too,” she managed.

She could hear the crunch of her shoes on the gravel. She had left her trainers in the art block. Ready for their walk on Wednesday.

Abby took a deep breath. “How _is_ Nick?” she asked.

The question hit Marianne in the chest.

Regret.

Yes. It felt just like regret.

“I haven’t heard from him,” she answered.

“And has he heard from you?” A pause, pregnant as the speaker. “You two _are_ still together, aren’t you?” Very much like regret, as it turned out. “Marianne?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And now, courtesy of ridiculousmavis, we present the ongoing Far from the Tree spotify playlist:
> 
> [Now That's What I Call Atonal Postmodern Symphonic](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/3fPdiEQLH73sqSmaYFLYEP?si=bE3gE0IJRhid9Lp3ZFXPag)
> 
> And courtesy of Abby, because we couldn't resist:
> 
> [Reiki Dolphin Massage Mega Mix](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/0NGgdyTuhswtrRT8mN90h5?si=NY0-Xi45QtepKwb8kV_sLwrel=)


	5. The Runner

“Marianne?”

Sophie was staring at her. There hadn’t been one single swearword over breakfast, and now, a look of concerned incomprehension had settled decidedly over her young face.

“Are you okay?” she said. “You haven’t touched your croissant.”

The rain fell heavily that morning, still battering against the french doors at the studio’s far end, skittering like angry fingernails. Despite the early hour, the gloom of heavy cloud made the day feel old, and deeply tired.

Marianne had dashed over the flowing road that morning at a sprint. She had meant to avoid the worst of the downpour, but succeeded only in drenching her feet with a badly timed puddle jump. Her socks were now on the staff loo radiator, dripping sadly into the bin. Her shoes, perhaps ruined, wallowed in the kitchen sink.

“I didn’t sleep well,” Marianne confessed.

Sophie sat down next to her. Neat, thoughtful, serious Sophie.

“Can I help?” she asked.

And then, soaked, cold, ill-prepared for the day ahead, Marianne had rounded the corner by the sports hall, breakfast in hand, and seen Héloïse.

“I don’t think so.”

Finishing her run. Hoodie sopping wet. Hair plastered down to her face and darkened by the water into a toasted caramel brown, her lips made puffy by the cold, and her eyes, bright, unusually wide.

“Hello!”

She had seemed so pleased to see her.

“Good morning!”

Her cheeks shone pink, and her neck, and her thighs; every exposed part of her was ruddy, glowing with water.

“Nice run?”

Bolder than usual, as if her confidence were driven by accelerated breath and blood. “Slippy.” She held up her hands, showing two sandpaper grazes on their heels, covered in mud and seeping a little. Marianne had winced. “I’m fine, really.”

“You should clean them.”

“I’m going to shower,” Héloïse nodded to the sports hall, fists on hips. “Your breakfast is getting wet.”

“Oh.”

Marianne, rooted, frowning into the rain.

“I’ll see you later?”

Not wanting to move. Not knowing how.

“I always try to finish what I start,” she said suddenly. “You know? Before beginning the next thing. Otherwise, you can fall into such shabby habits. You get caught up in something new, something exciting, and then you leave what went before botched and badly done, and I hate it.”

Sophie had the good sense to nod silently, to hand over the coffee, to listen with a straight face.

“But, there’s this… thing,” Marianne went on. “And I don’t even know if it’s finished or not. I keep thinking that it is, but then something happens to make me look at it in a new way, and I wonder if there’s still more to be done, more to be tried. Because I want to do it justice, you know?”

“Of course.”

“And I roll back, and I put my shoulder to it again, and find myself going over and over the same ground. And I have tried taking time away from it, giving myself space to get inspired and excited about getting back to it… But all that’s happened is, I’ve realised just how long it’s been, since the very idea of it has made me feel anything but tired.”

She sipped her coffee. It tasted particularly bad today.

Sophie twisted in her seat for a moment, before asking, “How do you know when something is finished?”

Marianne shrugged. “The usual, human ways. Tears. Noise. A drink afterwards.”

“You decide,” Sophie corrected quietly. “You make a decision. And no-one else can make it for you.” She shrugged. “Unless you’re a total wimp,” she added. “And you’re not a total wimp, are you?”

“Honestly,” Marianne mumbled, with a wry laugh, “until very recently, I might have said yes.”

“Well, there you go.” Sophie took the paper bag from her. “Progress.” At some point, the pastry it once contained had disappeared, which Marianne supposed was a good sign. “You just need to find the right moment to do the deed,” Sophie said firmly. “Because I absolutely forbid you to do it by text. You’re classier than that, Marianne. I know you are.” She scrumpled up the bag into a ball, threw it in a perfect arc across the room and into the bin.

“Why aren’t _you_ taking netball practice?” Marianne asked ruefully.

“Because it is demonstrably the worst game in the world. Wait,” Sophie checked herself. “We weren’t talking about some fucking painting, were we? Because if we were, I may need to rethink my advice.”

Marianne laughed. She loved that Sophie could make her laugh.

There was a knock.

“Yes?” Marianne tried to restrain her giggles.

The door swung inwards.

“Hello?”

It was Héloïse. She side-stepped into the studio, her gait wide and awkward, as if she were boarding a dinghy for the first time, unsure of her balance or the rules of the sea. She stood, dithering for a moment. Then added, “Hello, Sophie,” with a formal nod.

Before Marianne could rouse herself into a proper greeting, Héloïse had lifted her palms, squinting at them under the bright strip lights of the studio. “You don’t have any plasters, do you?” she asked. The grazes, now clear of mud, looked angrier than they had at first. The left in particular was still weeping thick gobbets of black blood. “My marking is becoming a bit of a crime scene.”

Marianne was off her seat in a moment. “Yes, let me…” She made instinctively to reach for Héloïse’s fingers, but pulled back at the last moment; not wanting to grasp, to surprise. “May I?” Héloïse held out her hands, just a little, permitting. Gingerly, Marianne took the long, blunt fingers in her own, just angling the heels into the light a little. “I think there’s still some grit in this one,” she murmured.

“Really?” Héloïse immediately pulled back, prodded at the graze with a curious thumb, winced, hissed with shock.

“Don’t…” Marianne batted the other hand away. “…do that. Let me just…” She turned to the studio sink, to the wall cupboard where the first aid kit was kept. “Sophie, do we have any tweezers in here?”

Sophie’s face was an absolute picture, white verging on green. “Are you going to go digging,” she asked quietly, “in Héloïse’s hand?”

“Yes,” Marianne replied, striding over to the cabinet. “For gold. And rubies. Stick with us, kid. We’re all going to be rich.”

“Oh.” Sophie headed for the door. “Good. Remember to sterilise them first. And if anyone needs me, I will be lying in the pottery room with my feet above my head okay bye.”

The door closed with a click.

Still staring into her own palms, as if hunting for answers, Héloïse murmured, “I believe I have first claim. On any rubies found.”

“Fifty fifty on all proceeds,” Marianne replied quickly, brandishing the tweezers. “I have the mining equipment.” She smiled, tipped some Dettol on some cotton wool, carefully cleaning the tips. “Come here,” she said, beckoning. “Natural light is better.” Héloïse obeyed, still holding her hands out in front of her, as if invisibly handcuffed. Marianne doused another swab with disinfectant, offered it. “Do you want to?” A firm shake of the head, her wrists thrust out farther.

“Clearly, I did a poor job last time.”

“Okay, well. It will probably hurt less if you don’t watch.”

“I want to see.”

Marianne flicked her eyes up, to catch Héloïse’s expression. To connect. To gauge. The limpid eyes were hooded, but focussed.

Delicately, watching all the time, Marianne dabbed at the grazes, felt the inhalation of breath, the twitch, waited, felt for the returned tension in the hand, then wiped again, until the cut was clean. “Is that all right?”

“Yes.”

“Okay. I can see it, if you just…”

She raised the hand, warm, a little dry, smelling of soap, heat, the sharp disinfectant. Marianne didn’t want to breathe over her, where the skin was tender and so sore. She lowered the tweezers, watching them twitch just slightly, waiting for her fingers to still a little.

“You know,” Héloïse murmured, “if you drank less caffeine…”

“This is a _bold_ moment to get snarky.” Marianne latched the speck of dirt between the needles, and drew it away. “There.” A bright red bead, glossy and clean, welled up in its place. She handed Héloïse another swab to wipe it away. “What were you doing?” Marianne said, shaking her head with a laugh.

Héloïse frowned, dabbing at her hands, her ears a little pink. “I slipped,” she said, “going up the hill.”

“No. I mean,” Marianne replied, rinsing the tweezers under the tap, “what were you doing running, in this?”

Héloïse looked out of the long windows, as if she had never thought of the weather as an impediment in her life, and was fascinated by the theory, even if she did not agree with it in practice. “I like running,” she said simply. “When I’m out there, I feel alive. Like I know where I’m going.”

Marianne opened the plaster box, watching Héloïse’s face. The way she could pick a thing and stare at it, a mug, her hands, the rain; it put Marianne in mind of something sweetly animal, like the slow focussed attention of an orang utan, the pretty madness of cats. If Marianne said nothing, she thought, they would be staring together for hours; Héloïse at the rain, and Marianne at Héloïse. She shook herself.

“Well, now,” Marianne said, remembering the plasters. “For being, if I may say so, an extremely brave soldier, perhaps you would like to choose your own? We have Avengers, we have Minions, we have Frozen, we seem to have some Barbie and of course, we have the traditional, as worn by all your favourite pensioners, hold your compression socks up with it, terracotta fabric Elastoplast.”

Héloïse grinned, her face tight. “An embarrassment of riches,” she said. Her eyes met Marianne’s for just a second longer than perhaps they ought to have done, before dropping back to the careful study of her own hands, raw and clean. “You choose.”

Marianne tipped her head to one side, as if considering, and then unfurled the fabric plaster. “To suit a closet traditionalist,” she said, as she cut off a generous length. Héloïse laughed once through her nose.

As she daubed antiseptic, and dressed the grazes, Marianne became aware of Héloïse’s stare, directed pointedly at the floor. She glanced down, to see what deserved so much thoughtful attention, and felt Héloïse check herself.

“Bare feet,” she explained.

Of course. Marianne could feel that they were nearly dry enough for her trainers, now, though livid with the chill, with the notice. “Close encounter with a puddle,” she said, smoothing down the last corner of the sticking plaster with deferential fingers.

Héloïse frowned. “Aren’t you cold?”

“A little. There. All done.”

Héloïse pursed her lips, flexed her hands, already testing the limitations of the adhesive, her movements exaggerated and muscular. “You should probably check on Sophie,” she observed.

“I had no idea she was so squeamish,” Marianne commented. “Does it run in the family?”

Héloïse caught her eye. “I hope not,” she replied. “They’re all doctors.”

Marianne laughed. “Really? All of them?”

A nod in reply. “Near enough.” Héloïse indicated the door with her head. “I ought. It’s nearly.”

“Yes.”

“But, coffee later?”

“Well, _I’ll_ need it. 7L first thing.”

Héloïse flashed her that quaint half smile, the one that some days Marianne thought she could read, and on others knew that she really couldn’t yet; veiled by turns under a happy boisterousness and touching timidity. Suddenly, the green eyes flicked to meet hers.

“Wait,” Héloïse muttered. And she had dashed out of the studio door before Marianne could ask why, or for what.

Instead, she carefully packed up the first aid kit.

She stuck her head into the pottery to find Sophie still lying on the floor. “You all right?” she asked softly. “Do you need water? Or a biscuit?”

“We have biscuits?” came the light, hopeful little voice.

She went to the kitchen to find sustenance, brought some back, with a glass of water because everyone could always do with drinking more water.

She returned to the studio to check the set up for the year sevens, listened to their gradual arrival into the hallway, the chatter and excitement.

And the door flew open.

Héloïse.

Drenched again. Her hair, already damp from the showers, now tugged and tousled by the rain, her blue jumper, blotched and darkened over the shoulders where she had scurried, hunched against the wet. She had been cradling something, something shoved under the soft wool, held carefully in the dry hollow of her body with both hands. She drew them out, now breathless and suddenly hesitant. Held them up.

“Socks,” she announced.

Marianne was already smiling.

“Thank you,” she said, as she accepted them.

They were white, and thick, striped around the tops.

Héloïse reassured her quickly, “They’re clean.”

“Better and better.” And in watching Héloïse’s face, in its very openness, Marianne could make out something vulnerable and so small and huddled, peeping out, towards an unfamiliar shape in the light.

Is that what you see, too? Marianne wondered. When you look at me. And wait.

“Are you going to watch me put them on?” she asked.

And Héloïse blushed, her eyes dipping, and ducked out of the room without another word.

“Now, when we’re looking at Egyptian painting, what do we notice? Look at your neighbour, look at a friend. Look at their face in profile. Now, what do their eyes look like? Do they look like the eyes in the painting? No. The eye in the painting is shown as if we were seeing it from the front, but the face itself is seen in profile. Turn your heads. Do you see? Then the shoulders… Where do we see the shoulders from?”

“From the front.”

“Yes, from the front, but then how are the legs? Ajay, stand up for us. Can you stand like an Egyptian painting? Head to the side, shoulders straight, hips and legs in profile. One foot in front of the other. Try not to wobble! It’s really hard, isn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“Nearly impossible?”

“Yes!”

“You don’t think the Egyptian artist had a model posing like that, do you? For hours and hours? Could you stand like that for hours and hours, Ajay?”

“No.”

“No. Now, look again at this garden painting. Charlie said it looked like a carpet, didn’t you, Charlie? The pond is shown from above, but the trees around it are shown from the side. The fish are shown as if we were under the water, the ducks as though we were above it. Why do you think the artist did that? If I give you a pen, Hannah, and I say go to the board and draw me an eye. Go on. Big as you like. Yes. Good. Now, Andrew, can you go and draw me a nose? Anywhere you want. Yes. Thank you. Oh, very delicate. And Michael, why don’t you draw me a fish? Now what do you notice? About how Hannah and Andrew and Michael drew those things?”

“It’s all how they are in the paintings.”

“Yes, Jodie. They are all how they are in the Egyptian paintings, aren’t they? You could have drawn me an eye, or a nose, or a fish, from any angle that you liked, but you picked those ones. Why? In fact, Michael stand back up. Draw me your fish again, but this time from the front. As if it were swimming straight at you. What would that look like? I know, it would look very weird, wouldn’t it? In fact, even if you did it exactly right, even if it were perfect, you would run the risk of the picture not looking very much like a fish at all. So, let’s think about what it means to draw a thing, not how it sits in three dimensions in the world, but how it exists in your mind. Not how it _appears_ , but how it is _most like itself._ ”

“How was Jodie?” Héloïse asked later. Over coffee. “And Charlie?”

They stood in the kitchenette, the rain still falling too heavily to sit outside.

“Charlie seemed fine,” Marianne replied. “Jodie was… very polite.”

Héloïse nodded carefully, while Sophie snorted in the doorway. “Polite?” she said. “She was fucking _gracious_.”

“Sophie,” Marianne admonished firmly, realising suddenly that the headmistress’s daughter was present, and was in possession of two, fine ears, best seen from the side.

“What?” Sophie shrugged. “She was behaving like the Duchess of bloody Kent and Héloïse agrees with me. And Héloïse must be about the only _real_ member of staff who isn’t scared of her.”

Marianne frowned. “Scared of Jodie?” She glanced at Héloïse for clarification.

“Her mother’s on the board of governors,” Héloïse explained.

Sophie shrugged. “Everyone around here knows…”

“Sophie!” Marianne breathed. “What is the bloody point of you being a bloody local, if you never bloody tell me anything?”

“Marianne!” Sophie crowed, “I am surprised, and shocked and appalled and distressed at your language, and so is Héloïse.”

“Oh, shut up.”

“What if Miss Blanchard, nay, Mrs Postlethwaite herself, had been passing?”

Héloïse smiled at their interactions, leaning into the room’s corner, long and solid as the buttress of a cathedral. But, when Sophie ducked out for a moment, Marianne caught something else hiding in those eyes, something furtive, and shyly unhappy.

“What music was playing?” Héloïse asked her. “When I came in earlier?”

Marianne tried to think.

They had been running late, thanks mainly to the weather. The children, already knowing that break time would be indoors, saw no reason to pick up their feet and leave the comfortable warmth of the art studio and Marianne, understanding their reluctance to run through the wet towards the sports hall, or the lower school and library, had not chivvied them.

The playlist on her laptop had simply kept running and running on.

Marianne remembered Héloïse’s face, as it had appeared around the doorway. She had noted the change in her expression from hopeful to empty; the dull carapace snapping suddenly shut; the speed with which she had darted away into the corridor. But Marianne had assumed, in the moment, that her visitor had been surprised by the presence of pupils, or seen the opportunity to get the kettle boiling. She had not thought that the cause for her rapid disappearance might have been the music.

“Was it a piano piece?” Marianne asked. There was a wordless nod. “Probably some Philip Glass, then.”

“‘Metamorphosis’.” Héloïse stated.

Marianne waited for some advance on the statement, or an explanation as to why Héloïse would ask a question to which she already knew the answer. But after a moment’s pause, when it was clear that nothing more was forthcoming, she decided that whatever lay lurking beneath this conversation would need coaxing out, tempting from under the sofa. And maybe, they weren’t there yet.

“One of the set, probably,” Marianne said with a shrug. “To be honest, they all sound the same, if I’m not concentrating.” This elicited no response. Something more direct was clearly needed. “You don’t like Glass, then?” she asked.

“I never said I didn’t like it,” Héloïse pointed out.

“Do you want me to find the track for you?” Marianne asked, making as if to stand away from the counter, but already knowing the answer.

“No,” came the sharp reply.

Marianne nodded to herself, watching Héloïse’s face, the sharp line of her displeasure, her untouched coffee.

“Funny,” said Marianne, “I’d have thought it would be up your alley. ‘Metamorphosis’.Gods, goddesses, heroes, myths.” She sipped carefully at her coffee, watching. “I mean, the Ovid must be all over the Latin syllabus, no?”

And there were the careful eyes, so hooded as to be nearly unseeing. “Different ‘Metamorphosis’,” she said.

And she walked out without another word.

Later that afternoon, as Marianne umpired indoor netball practice, she saw a shape walking past the long windows of the sports hall through the rain. It was wearing a waxed jacket, the hood raised so far as to be almost a blindfold, and it wheeled a barrow before it, forging through the lashing weather.

_“Bulging package in your p-hole.”_

Marianne smiled as she read the message, even as she also rolled her eyes. Sophie, it seemed, could not be trusted with so much as a text. She locked the studio behind her.

The light in Héloïse’s classroom was off, despite its being relatively early. Strange, Marianne thought. And she suddenly wished that she had a her mobile number.

_Are you okay?_

A normal enough thing to text. But in any other medium, a work email for example, or an inaugural facebook message, the words risked seeming like an imposition. Like an uninvited hug.

_Don’t be weird, Marianne._

She was jogging, shoulders shrugged against the rain, down the steps to the main building. Then, picking her way through the trainer shaped puddles on the tiled floor, she muddled past boarders, coming or going to the feeding trough.

“Careful, Thomas. Don’t run when it’s wet. Archie, where’s that shirt tail, please?”

She elbowed into the staff room, still guarding herself from the expected downpour of curiosity, only to find that the room was quiet and empty. Save for the motionless gazes of the awful portraits, ring fencing any potential relaxation with dead scrutiny, she was alone. In her solitude, she strode to the wall of pigeon holes, and found the package. Not bulging, she noted, but crisp; the precise folds of the brown paper wrapping at odds with the stretched and buckled sellotape. Someone used their teeth, Marianne concluded, imagining large, clever, fingers, let down by a natural impatience.

Unwrapping the parcel quickly, she was left holding a book, slim, with an orange cover, the stick figure of a man collapsed into one corner of the artwork, long-limbed and expressionless. ‘The Metamorphosis’, read the title, ‘and Other Stories’.

“Kafka?” said a curious voice.

Marianne raised her head.

Miss Blanchard was staring at her intently from the far end of the staff room. Marianne had not heard the headmistress enter, although the woman did move quietly, especially compared to her daughter. Marianne glanced at the author’s name.

“Yes,” she confirmed. And then, with a confused smile, “How could you tell from all the way over there?”

The blue eyes were caged; the lips a little parted. Miss Blanchard held her fingers lightly before her chest, twisting at a band of skin where a ring might once have been.

“I know the edition,” she said at last.

She strode to the fruit display, and reached for an apple, before appearing to think the better of it, and selecting a pear instead. She paused at the door to her study, turning slightly. “I wonder, Marianne,” she said, “if we might find a time for a word or two, you and I.”

Marianne was swallowing roughly as she nodded, her mouth suddenly dry. “Of course,” she replied.

“Nothing urgent,” the headmistress said, with a wave of the pear. “Just touching base.”

And with that, she was gone.

Marianne looked again at the book in her hands, battered and foxed, the spine swollen and veined. She opened the fly leaf, and saw an inscription.

Scrawled in green biro, it read: “To Grete.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For some hypnotic and, for Héloïse, apparently distressing piano music, we recommend the Far from the Tree spotify playlist, courtesy of ridiculousmavis:
> 
> [Now That's What I Call Atonal Postmodern Symphonic](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/3fPdiEQLH73sqSmaYFLYEP?si=bE3gE0IJRhid9Lp3ZFXPag)


	6. A Downward Path

“Have you ever read it?” she asked Sophie the next morning.

Sophie made a face indicating that no, dear God no, she had never in her life read any such thing and, as heaven was her witness, she did not intend to start now. “Must have passed me by,” she said pointedly. “What’s it about?”

Marianne gaped, finding herself completely unable to answer. The orange book, ‘The Metamorphosis’, was in her hands, fused into her fingers. She had held it pretty much all night. Reading, and re-reading.

She said, “Honestly, I don’t know. I’ve gone over it three, or four times maybe, and I’m still not sure I understand.”

Sophie made another face, one which this time communicated perfectly that if such incomprehension could be the result of having read something three, or indeed four times then, whatever a person might be chasing, they would be unlikely to find it in the pages of a paperback.

Marianne explained, “I mean, there’s a plot. Kind of. This man, Gregor, wakes up one morning to discover that, overnight, he has become a huge bug. Never any explanation for it, or any suggestion that he could be changed back. And his family rely on him financially. In fact, he’s given up all his dreams so that they can be comfortable. And during the story, they go from trying to help him, to being afraid of him, disgusted by him, to attacking him, and then being relieved and, frankly, better off all round after he dies.”

“Didn’t they make a Black Mirror episode like that?” Sophie replied, one eyebrow raised.

“But,” Marianne said, “it’s just… bleak. So, so bleak. And dry. And ruthless. The mother can’t stand to look at him, the father is enraged by him, and the sister character, Grete, goes from being the only member of the family to care for him, to being the first one to say out loud that things would be easier if he were just gone. Then, in the end, his father pelts him with apples. One gets caught in his wing casings, in his back. And as it rots, it kills him.”

“Marianne, did you sleep, at all?” Sophie asked at last. She pointed at her open laptop. “We have half an hour. That’s one, entire, wholesome episode of ‘Steven Universe’ I can shine directly into your eye holes.” Marianne could not quite bring herself to even smile. “Friendship,” Sophie insisted. “Self acceptance. Growth. Bright, candy colours and gender non-binary subtext. Come on! Unless you want to face a day full of pre-teens all wound up and angsty.”

“I just want to understand,” Marianne whispered.

“Understand what?” asked a voice from the doorway.

Héloïse was there, waiting. Her face was tired, too, and her eyes were fixed on Marianne’s. They did not look at the book in her hands. Pointedly, they were not looking at the bright orange cover. Not at all.

“Nothing,” Marianne lied reflexively, still flipping the book between her thumbs.

“I have a busy day,” Héloïse said. “I just wanted to check if we were still on for later.”

“Yes,” said Marianne, without hesitation.

“The weather might be shitty.”

“I brought an anorak.”

“If you’re sure.”

“I am.”

Héloïse frowned slightly, balancing on the door handle, apparently surprised. “All right, then,” she muttered. As she turned to go, she nodded to Sophie. “Hello, Sophie,” she said.

“Héloïse,” Marianne called after her, rising from her seat, following her into the corridor. She held out the book. “I read it,” she said. “Here.”

Héloïse did not stop, did not look back. “Keep it,” she replied over her shoulder.

Marianne blurted out, “I don’t think I want to.”

At the note in her voice, Héloïse halted. Turned. Her perfect bud of a mouth, pale, and fixed, like something carved in wax.

“That makes two of us,” she said.

Netball practice was wet, a little blowy, and the girls were playing sloppily, as if they expected at any moment to be told to go inside.

“Nicola, what was that? Follow through with your passes. Yellows.”

But Marianne had been given strict instructions. The weather was going to be dire for the rest of the week. “Get as much time with them outside as you can,” Mrs Badger had instructed. “Match against Duke’s Meade on Saturday. Due to be rotten windy. Best they get used to it.”

“Obstruction, greens. Esme. Esme! Go and get that, please. That was unsportsmanlike.”

Marianne herself had just about had enough of being bone cold and buffeted, though she was trying her very hardest not to show it. “Greens, take it quickly, please.” It was on afternoons like this that she would remember her little studio in London. “Take it. Take it, Miranda.” How cold it had been. How close she had huddled to the heater on days like this, even though it stank like a Happy Eater petrol stop. “All right. Holding. Yellows. No backchat, Penny. You were time wasting.” How in summer, the space had smelled strongly of the recycling plant next door. “Go, go, yes. Look to your wings.” Of the damp from the roof in the winter. “Good intercept! Now, turn it greens!” How she had loved it. “Yes, good attacking.” How she had loved that studio more than anywhere in the world. “And good shot, Penny.”

Until now.

She turned at the sound of enthusiastic clapping from the sidelines. Héloïse. Walking past, tendrils of blonde hair escaping her hood. The flash of laconic, stormy eyes. Long strides. Not staying to watch. “Play up, Otters!” she called.

And behind her, Marianne heard a barely disguised titter from the court. Out of the corner of her eye, she caught Jodie leaning into a team-mate, and whispering.

“ _So_ weird.”

Marianne despised whispering. “What was that, Jodie?” she snapped. And then, again, into the charged silence, she demanded, “What was weird?”

“Nothing, Miss,” Jodie muttered back.

“Carris?”

“It wasn’t me, Miss.”

“I should hope not. Because that would not be kind. Would it? We’re better than that. Right, centre, girls. Let’s go. Final ten minutes.”

The rain began to fall in earnest as Marianne was packing away the kit. The children had dashed off in the first of the downpour, and she hauled the unwieldy bags over her shoulder alone, struggling to navigate the uneven steps in the wet. Halfway up, she spotted that her trainer was undone. She could have laid down on the grass to cry. Groaning, she deposited her awkward burden onto her usual bench and tied the muddy laces with numbed, spongy fingers. With her foot on the seat, she happened to notice that the backrest had a plaque on it.

“Dr Henry Godard,” it read. “1957 - 2013. Loved this place.”

Godard.

That was Héloïse’s name.

Marianne had never connected it to her until that moment. It had been a name on a pigeon hole, on a workbook, an email address; somehow disconnected from the solid, serious, watchful person she had come to know. Functional. Like a waterproof, she thought. Necessary, sometimes, but not chosen. Something to be typed and printed and pasted and signed. But not whispered in the dark.

Héloïse. The very name was a whisper, she thought. And then she flustered over why she had thought it. Found herself suddenly wondering if perhaps they should cancel their walk, since the weather did not look like clearing up.

But earlier, Héloïse had asked her.

And she had said yes.

And she had been sure.

Even so, six thirty came without her being ready in the least.

“Do you need me to lock up?” Sophie asked, her eyes large and curious.

“No,” Marianne said. “I’ll just tidy. A bit. You go.”

“All right. If you’re sure.”

“I am.”

“Because Héloïse is outside,” Sophie said, entirely po-faced. “And it looks as though she’s been waiting a while already.”

Marianne felt her gut drop. And suddenly she knew. Without a shadow of a doubt. “Oh.”

“Shall I tell her you’ll be another minute?”

“Um.” Marianne glanced about, trying to locate her coat. In the lavatory. Dripping into the bin. Damn everything.

“That you’re tidying?”

What the hell was she doing? What the hell was she letting herself… “Sophie,” Marianne groaned, hunting for her keys, “just go and get some dinner. I’ll be…”

“Okay.”

She had felt… Just at her name, she had felt… And it was stupid to go on pretending, to go on imagining that she could put off everything that needed to happen before she could even… And where were her keys?

“Sophie, have you seen…?”

She raised her head. And Héloïse was in the doorway, lowering her hood. There were drops of rain, gathered in her loose hair, on her cheek. The plasters on the heels of her hands were dark with water. “She said you’d be another minute.”

“Sorry,” Marianne gasped. “I’m just… I can’t find…”

“No rush.”

They stared at each other for a moment, and Marianne had to consciously jolt herself awake. And she knew suddenly for a fact that the keys were in her back pocket. Where they had been all afternoon. Where she always kept them. And still, she did not move.

“What’s the music?” Héloïse asked.

Another thing she had stopped noticing. Surging cellos, rippling violins, like wind across a field of wheat, the sun struggling to break through banked cloud. “I forgot it was still playing.” Marianne went to shut the laptop down, to turn it off.

“Leave it,” Héloïse murmured. “Please.” They listened for a moment. The growl of the melody, mirrored in the basses and violas, below the mellow flutter, breezes in sycamore branches. “It’s beautiful.”

Marianne laughed, mortified or gratified, she could not tell. She was leaning on her hands, backed against the counter. “‘Dives and Lazarus’,” she said.

“Like the Bible story?”

“The hymn tune.”

Héloïse listened, just at the moment when the violins and basses fell into their dialogue, mounting, building inevitably towards their final unison, channelling towards the last variation. All of the strings gathered, focused, ready to burst into the wide delta of harmony. And her face was so concentrated, so sharp, tracing the movement of the music in her large eyes, with such still, riveted attention, with enough intelligence, enough wired instinct to know what must, what had to be coming.

Marianne shut it off. Closed the laptop. Put it away.

“Oh?” Héloïse asked, a bemused, broken look on her face.

Marianne stood up, away from the desk. “Another time,” she promised, the laptop in her bag. Locked in a drawer. Later. “I’ll just get my coat,” she said. Before pausing, adding, “If Bach helps me to believe that there’s a heaven, then I think Vaughan Williams helps me to believe that there might be such a place as home.”

It was such an odd thing to confess. Something she had often thought to herself as she listened in the privacy of her bedroom, her studio, her headphones, but never once said out loud. And, then, there it was, spilled onto the floor of an empty classroom, like a slopped bucket of emulsion. She waited, for Héloïse to laugh; to call her pretentious. For it all to seem too much, suddenly. And she realised that she had lowered her eyes, that somewhere deep within, she still expected the shove to the shoulder, the elbow to the gut.

Héloïse asked, quietly curious, “Do you believe in a heaven?”

Not an elbow, then. But something else. Soft, and infinitely more dangerous. “Not often,” Marianne replied. “But sometimes. I try to, sometimes.”

They walked in their anoraks, falling into step without realising, trudging out towards the side entrance of the junior school, the one that led past the little Tudor church, and into the fields beyond.

“The grounds go all the way down to the water meadows,” Héloïse was saying. “When I was here, we used to go hunting for water boatmen and frogspawn in Biology classes. Or just for a paddle, when the summers were really hot.”

“It got that hot during term time?” Marianne asked, surprised.

“Occasionally,” Héloïse replied. “I think. But I find it hard to remember, now: what was school. And what was home.”

They crossed a stile, set into the hedge, and the meadows spread before them in the yellow evening light, wide, and lush. There was a distant cow herd at the far end, mobbed by glittering insects.

“The school owns all this?” Marianne asked.

“Yes. Right to the top of the hill.”

“And they’re not tempted to build on it?”

Héloïse laughed grimly. “People have been trying to build on these meadows,” she said, “since before the Normans came. Since the Danes, and the Saxons.” She looked around them in the dusk, over the combed fields, wrinkled by streams and trenches, ringed by willow trees and bullrushes. Her expression was strangely proud. “And whenever they think they’ve found a way to drain them, somehow, the water finds its way back. Always.”

“Good,” Marianne said, quietly.

“Good?”

“Some places deserve to be left alone.” They squelched along together, traversing one of the gritted ridges, skirting the muddy slop to either side. “Can I ask you something?” Marianne said.

“Anything.”

The answer was so decided, that it took Marianne a moment to continue. “Your parents were divorced, weren’t they?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“But both of them stayed at the school?”

Héloïse laughed a little. “Neither of them felt that they should be the one to leave.”

“That must have been awkward.”

“Well, I wasn’t here for most of it,” Héloïse confessed. “Thankfully.”

“University?”

“My master’s. We should be able to make it up the hill and back,” she said, “if you’re keen.”

The meadows had a primordial feel to them, Marianne thought. Exactly the kind of landscape where, if one only bent and scooped the mud, you might find trilobites and shark’s teeth embedded in the pale chalk. “You read Classics?”

“And comparative linguistics.”

“Was your father a classicist, too?”

Héloïse paused at the gate, hoisting herself over on long legs, rather than bothering to open it. “No, actually,” she said. “They were both medievalists,” dropping to the far side, “back in the day. Lots of Latin, obviously, but a focus on Middle English and Old French.”

“Hence ‘Héloïse’,” Marianne commented. She rested her hands on top of the fence for a moment.

“Yes,” came the wary reply, dampened a little by the patter of rain. An ironical laugh followed. “Something only a pair of academics would do to a child.”

“Well, I think it’s pretty,” Marianne replied, and started to climb.

Héloïse’s reply was dry, but her eyes were pleased. “You don’t have to spell it.”

The hill was wooded, but not steep, and the light was with them as they wound up towards the ridge that passed for a summit in this gentle part of the world. “You came here straight from University?” Marianne asked.

“More or less,” said Héloïse.

Marianne prodded. “So, you did something else afterwards, or…”

“No, I just never finished my postgrad,” Héloïse said, turning sharply on her heel. “Does it matter?”

Looking up at her, Marianne could see the cold, closed-off expression. She rocked back on her hip, took a moment to breathe.

“You know, you don’t have to answer,” she pointed out quietly, “if I ask you something that makes you uncomfortable. I don’t mean to pry.”

“You aren’t.”

“We can just walk.”

“I know.” Héloïse swept her hood back with a rough hand, blinked, as the light rain began to patter into her eyelashes, over the sweep of her nose. “It’s been a long time since anyone in this place hasn’t known exactly who I am,” she said, with a slight shrug. “Or thought they did. There are things I’ve never had to say out loud.”

“Does it help?”

She laughed a little. “It’s unnerving.”

Marianne strode up the ridge, overtaking her, following the path. “Well, why don’t you ask me something, then? I think it must be your turn.”

She could almost hear the wheels turning in Héloïse’s head, the calculation. Nevertheless, the calm question knocked the wind from her, when it came.

“Why do you never talk about your boyfriend?”

Marianne found she could not look at her just yet. She frowned down towards the village, as the street lights began to flicker on in the gloom and the drizzle, blazing over terracotta roofs and glistening slate.

“Abigail mentioned that you had one.”

Marianne put her hands on her hips. Steadied herself. “I think it might be ending,” she said.

“Why?”

“He’s in London.”

“Well?” Héloïse said, kicking at the path. “It’s not the moon.”

Marianne shrugged. “It’s not here,” she countered. “I knew, before, that I needed something to change,” she said. “And, when Abby said her maternity cover would be coming up, I just thought, sod it: if I change all of it, even if it’s scary, even if some of it doesn’t work out, it’s only a year, and at least I’ll be able to look back and see what it was that I missed. And so far…”

Héloïse was nodding. “It’s not him,” she said, her voice milder.

Marianne squatted down, leaning on a tree trunk, her arms bound tightly around her middle. “It’s not any of it,” she murmured. “Not our flat, or our friends, our routine. The only thing I miss,” she said, “is my shit hole of a studio. And I wonder if I only miss that because it was the one space in London that was really mine.” She played with her hands, twining and intertwining her fingers, glowering into the gathering dark. “I don’t know,” she muttered. “I mean, it’s only been two weeks. Perhaps it’s too early to tell.”

Héloïse twisted on her feet, grinding the edges of Marianne’s vision, her hands in her pockets. “How long have you been together?” she asked.

“Since the Slade,” Marianne said softly. “Seven years. Jesus!”

“Do you love him?”

Marianne surprised herself by laughing. “That is…” She stood up, walked on a short distance, as if needing to shake pins and needles from her lips. “That is a complicated question.”

“No, it isn’t.”

“All right, then,” Marianne called over her shoulder. “It’s a _big_ question.”

“You’re going the wrong way.”

She turned around, faced Héloïse. Héloïse, who stood with her hands in her pockets, her fair head bare in the light drizzle, so that she was crowned with rain. Marianne had to look away before she could speak again.

“I read a poem once,” she said, “with the line, ‘Loyalty is regret spread into time’. Did you ever hear of it? I’ve been thinking about it a lot. Recently.”

She began walking back, towards Héloïse, towards the water meadows, and the school.

“You think it’s true?” Héloïse asked.

“I don’t go to art for the truth,” Marianne replied with a laugh. “I know too many artists.”

“You’re more interested in ideas.”

“And feelings, yes.”

They fell back into slow step with one another. “So, what does it make you feel, then?”

Marianne tried to ignore the low flare ignited by the question. “The poem? That maybe loyalty isn’t a good thing,” she said. They were walking side by side, but the path was narrow, and Héloïse kept hopping onto the soft verge to make room, her boots smearing the chalk. “I used not to question it,” Marianne murmured. “But when I picture something to which I feel loyalty, it’s always something that has… run out, you know? That I’ve poured so much of myself into for so long, I’ve stopped noticing whether it gives anything back, except the expectation of more need.” She stopped herself. “Does that make sense?”

A frown creased Héloïse’s brow, a valley fold, defined with the pull of a single thumb nail. She asked, “Is it such a bad thing; to be needed?” She didn’t try to answer her own question, but her expression was fixed into deep thought. Marianne knew instinctively that to speak would be to interrupt. “The book was my father’s,” Héloïse said, after a few paces. “‘The Metamorphosis’. It was left on his bed when he died.”

Marianne nodded. “And the inscription?”

No reply came.

From this side of the hill, Marianne could make out the chapel, the road, the Post Office, the school and its grounds, its buildings, its pretty limits. Seen from above, the place was a green cradle, she thought; so shot through with generations of childish imagination, that it scarcely seemed real. Doomed, like a plaything, to be suddenly outgrown, and ever afterwards imperfectly remembered.

“You don’t want it back, do you?” Marianne said. “The book?”

“No. I don’t.”

They reached the gate to the water meadows. Marianne pushed herself up on her hands, levering herself over the bars in one graceful movement. And she turned to find Héloïse, paused, looking at her strangely, as if seeing something clearly for the first time. She wiped her hands on her anorak, shyly smiled.

“Maybe loyalty is a kind of patience,” Héloïse said at last, her dazed expression unaltered. “Like hope. A holding pattern for the heart, while we wait for change.”

Marianne asked, “How long do we have to wait, do you think?”

It was as if, in independent unison, they had been imagining a very different conversation, and, now, weren’t altogether certain which one had taken place out loud. Shy of straying into the wrong script, there was a silence between them, full of rain.

“Well,” Héloïse said, as she clambered over the gate to join Marianne in the meadow, “that really is a big question.”

“Are you hungry?” she asked.

“A little.”

“Come on.”

They veered down the road at the church, towards the little crowd of shops: the off-licence, the everything store, the chippy.

“Benny’s,” said Héloïse, and went in without asking. She ordered chips, which came in one size and one style only: enormous, slathered in salt and vinegar and presented in a paper bag. “Grab a fork. We’ll share.”

They walked slowly, leaning into each other, spearing chips around arms, offering across bodies, steam rising and rain falling steadily. They stopped in the graveyard. “Mummy doesn’t like us eating takeaway on site. Bad example.” And sat, sheltered by a yew tree on the chest of a tomb, its surface rubbed clean of moss and lichen, its pedestal scattered with the butts of ancient cigarettes.

“The Romans,” said Héloïse, between mouthfuls, “believed that yew trees grew in the underworld. ‘There is a downward path’,” she quoted, “‘gloomy with fatal yew trees; it leads through dumb silence to the infernal regions. The sluggish Styx exhales vapour, and, by that way, the shadows of the newly dead descend.’”

Marianne laughed. “Oh, _very_ metal.”

“Ovid,” Héloïse said, with a guarded smile, picking around in the bottom of the bag for the crispy bits. “Your other ‘Metamorphosis’.”

“I think I prefer it,” said Marianne.

“So do I.” She took up the now empty packet, and folded it carefully into quarters, sucking the grease from her fingers. Marianne watched her, not worrying any more what it was that she was looking for. Knowing. And deciding that, here, in this secluded place, she didn’t mind at all.

“Go on,” she said softly.

“With what?”

“Let’s have some more.”

“Chips?”

Marianne laughed. “Ovid!”

Héloïse looked at her for a long moment. And then tucked the empty bag into her coat pocket, hopping off the stone. “Later,” she said.

“Héloïse,” Marianne called to her, watched her turn in the half light. “On the hill, if we had carried on along that path, where would it have taken us?”

When Héloïse replied, her voice was oddly distant. “Honestly,” she said, “I have no idea.”

They walked back into the school in silence. The lights were out in the main building, save for the lower hall, where the boarders would be playing ping pong and table football and pool.

“Christmas,” Héloïse said suddenly.

“What about it?”

“I think, maybe, wait until Christmas,” she said, “before making any more big changes.”

“Why?” Marianne asked reflexively, surprised by the hurt in her own voice.

“So much has changed already,” Héloïse murmured. “Act in haste; repent at leisure.”

“I don’t think a slow collapse over seven years could be called particularly hasty,” Marianne replied.

They walked together away from the light, to the art department, and the darkened classrooms.

“I didn’t mean only you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, go on then. There should now be the Five Variations of Dives and Lazarus on the Far from the Tree spotify playlist. For full effect, stop listening before the final variation, at 8:55 in this version:
> 
> [Now That's What I Call Atonal Postmodern Symphonic](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/3fPdiEQLH73sqSmaYFLYEP?si=bE3gE0IJRhid9Lp3ZFXPag)


	7. On Portraiture

Miss Blanchard’s office was inordinately large.

Male proportions, Marianne thought, as if the room had been designed for a gentleman farmer, or some Georgian Colonel, riddled with insecurity. There was a real possibility, she supposed, that the upper school building, the oldest on site, might have had a former life. Now that she looked at it, the view out of the front windows resembled nothing so much as the vista of a country house. By rights, there should have been a game of croquet laid out on the front lawn, or an abandoned parasol.

“Was this always a school?” she asked.

Miss Blanchard sighed. “Believe it or not,” she said, “I couldn’t tell you. But don’t spread that around. The old boy network would have a field day.”

Marianne feigned a gasp. “ _Deplorable_ lack of school spirit!”

“Yes, well,” she said grudgingly, “there always were far better historians in the family. As you may have already gathered.”

“I am sure you have other qualities,” replied Marianne.

To her relief, Miss Blanchard threw her head back and laughed, a smoker’s laugh like a lawnmower starting, hearty and infectious. She wiped at her eyes as she sat down, eschewing the throne behind the sarcophagus of a desk, preferring a padded armchair before the fire.

“Sophie is right,” she sighed. “You are a funny lady. I’ll admit that I hadn’t noticed before.”

“I am also a shy lady,” Marianne confessed, taking a seat opposite. “And Sophie is a fine one to talk.”

“She didn’t,” Miss Blanchard replied. “Her mother and I are old friends. And she’s been hearing good things.”

“Oh. Of course.” Marianne cringed. “‘Everyone around here knows…’”

“Everything.” Miss Blanchard levelled a twinkling gaze; piercing, for all its playfulness. “Yes. In fact, I have been hearing good things from all quarters, Marianne. Very encouraging things indeed. You should take it as a compliment,” she advised, noting Marianne’s obvious discomfort. “The village mothers do not pull their punches. And my dear, they all wear diamonds.”

Yes, Marianne thought. The headmistress was a former smoker. She even balanced her elbow on the chair arm as if her fingers held a ghostly cigarette. She did not fit into this study any more than she had suited the staff room. And yet. And yet, it was her photograph on the website; her name on the door. Curious woman.

“I’m just not used to being talked about,” Marianne said.

“You will learn,” Miss Blanchard laughed, “as we all have had to.”

“No secrets in a village?”

“On the contrary,” the headmistress replied lightly, “in a village, _everyone_ has secrets. A little something, that is yours and yours alone to keep. Keeping a good secret is sometimes the only way one does not run quite mad in a place like this. But they are all,” and here she waved a hand dismissively, “of the dull, common-or-garden variety, I’m afraid. An affair, here. A financial embarrassment, there. A tiny little drinking problem. The kind of thing that everyone can happily ignore with a clear conscience when they inevitably find out. Because they will inevitably find out.” She laughed. “And isn’t it all so much _nicer_ , if we can still look the vicar in the eye, eat canapés together, and pretend?”

“I’m doomed,” Marianne replied.

Miss Blanchard glittered playfully. “Not good with vicars?”

“With pretending.”

Again, the headmistress laughed. “And what a breath of fresh air that will be!”

She poured them both coffee, real for once, thick and strong. She offered cream and sugar, which Marianne declined.

“Ah, not to worry,” Miss Blanchard said, helping herself to both. “More for my porridge. How are you settling in?”

“Good, I think,” Marianne said, glad that the tide of irony seemed to have abated. “A few teething problems, here and there.”

“Not with staff?”

“With pupils.”

“Pupils!” Miss Blanchard sighed. “Not teething, then, I’m sorry to say. Just teaching. You never trained, did you?” Marianne shook her head. “And you don’t have children of your own?”

“No.”

Miss Blanchard checked her surroundings, and leaned forward. “They can be little arseholes,” she muttered. “Just remember to punish the behaviour and not the child, and try not to worry about being liked.”

Marianne murmured, “Liking is for equals.”

“Exactly.” Miss Blanchard smiled warmly. “And you can always talk to me, if any specific child becomes a headache. Or to a colleague, if that would feel less formal.”

“Thank you.”

The headmistress handed over the cup. “Perfer et obdura,” she intoned, “dolor hic tibi proderit olim.”

“I can only imagine so,” Marianne said politely.

“Be patient and resilient,” Miss Blanchard translated kindly. “Someday, this pain will be useful to you. Have you,” and here she sipped her coffee almost timidly, “been finding time to socialise at all? We rarely see you in the staff room.”

“We’re a little cut off, out in the art block.”

“Of course.”

“But,” Marianne said in a hurry, “Héloïse and I have been spending time,” wishing that the words did not feel so much like a confession. “She’s been very welcoming, showing me the ropes.” She glanced up from her hands where they fiddled with the coffee cup; uncertain what expression it was that she expected to see on that demonstrative face; surprised, to find that it was inquisitive, and gentle.

“Well,” Miss Blanchard said after a while, “she can certainly offer you a unique insight.”

“There can’t be many people,” Marianne said, “who have seen the place from every angle.”

“She is a part of its history,” Miss Blanchard replied, draining her coffee with a decisive snap. “Poor kid. And speaking of history…” At this, Miss Blanchard put her head back and groaned. “I have now been in this job for over five years.”

“Very well done.”

“And the board of governors,” she went on, waving away the congratulations like a fruit fly, “insist I get my dratted portrait painted for the hall. They’re _so_ excited to have a woman up there at last. But.” And here, she gave a desperate smile. “I can’t,” she said quietly, “be like those scarecrows in there. I just can’t.”

In the charged silence that followed, realisation dawned over Marianne. “Are you asking me to…?”

“There’s a budget,” Miss Blanchard said quickly. “And they tell me that you’re very good.”

“Have you,” Marianne asked, “seen any of my work?”

“Well, I won’t be taking my clothes off, clearly,” Miss Blanchard said. “Although,” she added, grinning conspiratorially, “can you imagine?”

“My process,” Marianne said slowly, aware for the first time that the offer was serious, and quite possibly interesting, “is unconventional.”

“Tell me.”

“I take photographs,” she said, “a series of them, in differing lighting levels. Some with very long exposures.”

“And then you paint from the photographs.”

“Exactly.”

“How long are the exposures?”

“Between fifteen seconds and half an hour.”

“And I stay perfectly still for that half hour?” Miss Blanchard asked, clearly fascinated.

“Reasonably still,” Marianne said, warming to her subject, “but I generally talk to my models during the longest shoots, keep them alive in the frame. It’s the movement that interests me. Trying to reflect it, grapple with the impossibility of faithfully turning something transient and vital into something permanent and still.”

“Yes,” Miss Blanchard said distantly. “It is the stillness that frightens me. The chaps next door; I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but they are very…” She waved sadly. “…very, very dead.”

Marianne agreed solemnly. “Terribly dead.”

“Yes.”

“So dead.”

“You’ll consider it, then?”

Marianne smiled at Miss Blanchard, their mutual apprehension and confidence suddenly folding them together into a kind of balance. “I’ll think about it,” she said, “if you will.”

“Agreed,” said the headmistress. “See if we can’t arrive at a compromise.”

“Somewhere between mummified…”

“…and stark bollock naked, yes.” Even as they both laughed, something in Miss Blanchard’s face became thoughtful, a question rising to the surface as their mirth subsided into an equal calm. “I am glad that you like Héloïse,” she said softly. “She is not always an easy person. But I believe she is a very good one.”

“I don’t know that I trust easy people,” Marianne answered evasively. “Charm tends to mask a lack of conviction.”

“Oh, she wants for nothing in that particular department!” Miss Blanchard looked at her carefully, as if feeling something out, something that she might come later to regret. “She gave you something,” she murmured, and the pause she left was chilly and still. “Didn’t she?”

Marianne felt wrong-footed. “Yes,” she confirmed, shifting uncomfortably.

“That book of Kafka,” Miss Blanchard continued, “belonging to my late husband.”

‘Your ex husband,’ Marianne thought, realising that she had suddenly found the limits of her candour with this woman, and that it was on the shores of Héloïse.

“Perhaps,” Miss Blanchard said, clearly choosing her words with great care, “you are not aware of its significance. Of the full weight it carries for her.” Her eyes became tigerish for a moment, protective. “Of what you would be sharing, in accepting it.”

“I only know,” Marianne started, before checking herself, uncertain of what exactly it was that she knew, “that she does not want it any more.”

And the eyes softened. “This, I can understand,” Miss Blanchard said with a nod. “This, I can completely understand. Well. When you have finished it, Marianne, I wonder if you would be so good as to return it to me.” She did not wait for an answer. Indeed, she had not asked a question. Instead, she stood with a practised resolve, effortlessly denoting the end of the interview. “And, thank you for your time. My door is always open.”

The phone rang, just as they were parting, and Miss Blanchard huffed, sidling back behind her gargantuan desk, as if she might have been navigating a large, sleeping pig.

Catching the flutter of the headmistress’s hand, Marianne waved herself out, unaccountably relieved.

She escaped into the staff room, closing the door as quietly as she could behind her.

“Oh,” said an increasingly familiar voice. “Hello.”

Marianne turned, already knowing.

That it was Héloïse. She was wearing her hair in a pony tail, rather than her usual bun. The change would have made her look about ten years younger, were it not for her habitual expression of world weariness. The shirt was striped. Dark blue. “In trouble?” she asked, with the hint of amusement.

“Deep trouble,” Marianne laughed. She wondered suddenly about mentioning the book, about the cold turn in the conversation it had prompted, but quickly thought the better of it. She did not want the face before her to lose even its fleeting levity. “She’s going to make me paint her.”

Héloïse gave a tight-lipped smile. “I was wondering when she’d ask you.”

Marianne found that her cheeks felt hot, and she hurriedly changed the subject. “And you? Detention? Expulsion?”

“Oh, I have been on the naughty step since the age of five,” Héloïse replied. “But she won’t break me.”

“Seriously, though.”

“Just tea,” she said with a smile. “We have tea once a week. Talk. Check in. She tries to do the Mum stuff, you know.”

“Not really,” Marianne answered, and she saw Héloïse’s face fall, just a smidgen, just a whisker.

“I’m sorry,” Héloïse said immediately, and with complete sincerity. “That was stupid of me.”

“Don’t be,” Marianne shrugged. “And you know you’re not stupid.”

“No. I am very intelligent,” Héloïse said, and this time the smile was quite genuine. “Very, very bright. But I can be an utter plank, sometimes, and I’m sorry.”

Marianne decided to change the subject. “She’s on the phone,” she said quietly.

Héloïse seemed to be weighing something, before she spun away. “Come on, then,” she murmured. “I want to show you.”

They ducked down a panelled corridor, the one that led to the grand entrance of the house, which nobody used now except for visiting dignitaries and prospective parents. Across the echoing hallway, they came to a narrow passage, leading into the private side of the house. Its walls were given over entirely to photographs; school photographs, decades and decades worth. Armies of blue jumpers. And each year going back, the group dwindled down in size, until the entire school could have been mistaken for a family portrait; shaven haired boys in plus fours, dance-eyed, cross-legged on the lawn around a mutton-chopped man of God and his tired looking wife. Marianne breathed.

“They keep the most current ones in upper school,” Héloïse was saying, hunting through dates. “But back here is where they keep the good stuff.”

“There were so few of them,” Marianne murmured.

“Charity foundation,” Héloïse said with a laugh that sounded bitter. “Poor and needy boys only. Mostly war orphans. And now… open to all comers, with fees in the tens of thousands.”

“Strange.” Marianne examined the man in the sepia photograph, his expression hidden by the light gleaming on his spectacles. “What would he have made of it all?” she whispered. “Can you imagine his face?”

Héloïse stopped hunting, raising her head. “I can imagine hers,” she said drily. “The house was her family’s. She raised the funds.”

“Oh,” Marianne said, genuinely surprised, and ashamed. “Any children of their own?”

“Yes. Seven,” Héloïse said. And she seemed to be stalking Marianne’s reaction. “That always takes people aback as well,” she said grimly, quietly, before resuming her search. “As if she could only be expected to act charitably if she were missing something in herself. As if she couldn’t just see what needed doing, and do it. For no better reason than that it was right.”

Marianne realised that she was staring; that she had been for a while. She murmured, “You’re not related, by any chance?”

Again, Héloïse paused. Raised her head. Frowned. “What? No!” She seemed confused. “Can’t I admire her for her own sake?”

Marianne replied, very softly, “That isn’t what I meant.” She glanced towards the photograph at which Héloïse had stopped. “What’s that one?” she asked, edging over, looking closer. “Is that Sophie? No, it’s far too early.”

Héloïse smiled. “First intake of girls,” she said. “Sophie’s aunt.”

“No way!” Marianne breathed. “Spoon-faced little badass. They look identical!”

“The whole family do.”

“She did warn me.”

“Have you spotted her baby cousins in class yet?”

“Two out of four, I think. But she won’t tell me which the others are.”

A low laugh. “She keeps her secrets.”

“She does.” Marianne straightened up. They were very close together suddenly, in the narrow passageway. “And you?” Marianne asked quietly. “Or did you bring me all this way to show me Sophie’s aunt?” There was a dip in Héloïse’s eyes. An indecision. Marianne prompted her, doing some quick calculations. “1996?” she asked.

“’98,” came the soft reply.

Marianne edged past her, minding their frames, moving along the line of photographs. Until she found it, a little sun bleached, green and blue. She looked along the line of year 4s, smiling toothily, cross-legged at the front of the picture. She wondered, for a moment, if she would not recognise her, whether that might be a shame or a relief; whether this was a test or a trick. But a moment later, there was no doubt. No doubt at all.

Héloïse: tiny and unmistakable. For all the passage of over twenty years, the strong features, large eyes, wavy hair, had barely changed. But her younger self was smiling, as Marianne had never witnessed in the flesh, crinkle-eyed and luminous. And she sat at the knees of a man who had that exact same smile, the same pointed chin and dark brows; the very pattern of her features.

God, they were alike!

But Marianne knew it was not the time. This was not yet the time.

“That’s you!” she breathed, glancing between the photograph and the woman beside her. She felt herself laugh softly. “That is so weird.”

Héloïse gave her a strange sideways look, not quite a smile. And after a moment’s indecision, she asked, “Want to see something really weird?” She directed Marianne back and back along the line of photographs. ’92. ’91. ’90. Pausing on ’89. And there, a bubble-haired Miss Blanchard sat, smiling widely from behind large librarian glasses, visibly pregnant. Héloïse pointed to the bump, her finger delicately hovering, just above the glass. “That’s me,” she murmured.

“I think I have an idea,” Marianne said later.

She and Sophie were tidying the pottery studio. It was Marianne’s turn to mop, an activity that she found strangely soothing, as Sophie wrangled the kidneys, the knives and sticks into a sink full of soapy water. “For a club.”

Sophie whipped around, her eyes very serious. “Talk to me,” she said.

Marianne laughed. “To be honest,” she said, “I think I’m going to do it anyway, whether or not anyone else is interested.”

“Good,” Sophie replied. “Shows grit. I like it. Shoot.”

Marianne dissembled, gliding the mop into a far corner, where the white clay flecks had gathered and mingled with hopeful spiders’ webs and dust bunnies. “Have you ever _made_ a camera?” she asked. Into the silence, she scrambled, “It’s easier than you might think. And so, so satisfying.”

“Go on,” Sophie said, her tone level.

“They design their own cameras; cardboard pinhole cameras, box cameras, wide angle tin can cameras. We go out, we use them, they develop the pictures themselves, see what works, what doesn’t. Make adjustments based on what we learn. Make new cameras. See if they work any better and why. And at the end of it all, they can keep the photos, of the school, of their friends. But they’re not just stupid snaps they could have taken on their phone or whatever. They’ve made treasures. They have discovered photography for themselves.”

“Fuck,” Sophie said, shaking her head above her smeared apron. “You nerd. Fuck. I love it.”

Marianne tipped her head to one side, her gut tumbling slightly. “You think anyone will actually want to join?”

“ _I_ want to join!”

“I mean,” Marianne said, hedging desperately, “I’ll have to do most of this anyway, get the darkroom working again, so, I just thought, as long as we’re ordering the chemicals…”

“Stop talking yourself out of it,” Sophie instructed. “You are a gorgeous genius, and I am here for your magnificent brain, now.” She plunged her hands into the sink. “Silence. While I wash.”

Marianne lasted approximately eight seconds. “You really think people might want to do it?”

Over the scrubbing brush and the fizz of bubbles, Sophie said, “If not, it can just be you, and me, and Héloïse, and we’ll still have a fucking awesome time. And, added bonus: everyone in the photos will be hot.”

Marianne had stopped mopping. “Héloïse?” she asked. Her fingers gripped and released the mop handle anxiously. “Do you think she would be interested?”

Sophie tuned around. And her face was blank as marble. “Sure,” she said.

Marianne frowned. “I don’t know that she’s into crafts or…”

“She’ll be into it,” Sophie drawled, “ya dummy.”

And for the first time, Marianne felt a twinge of nervousness. She thought of Abby. And of Nick, and was ashamed she had not thought about him first. She thought of all their mutual friends, how thoroughly the tiny worlds of art and private education bled into one another. And London, after all, was not the moon.

“We’re just friends,” she mumbled, “you know; Héloïse and me.”

Sophie looked at her carefully, her face soft, suds dripping from her elbows and forearms. “Still?”

Marianne blushed. Nodded. Looked away.

“Is that,” Sophie said, “what you want to be? Both of you?”

Marianne managed a smile. “Yes,” she said. “I mean, I’m… not exactly single yet. You forbade me to do anything over text, so…” It was meant to sound funny, but came out defensive, and small.

Sophie turned her head just slightly. “But, you’ve talked about it, with Héloïse?” she asked. “The alternative?”

Marianne sighed.

Looking back, she was amazed that it never even occurred to her to pull rank, to protest the impropriety of being questioned in this way, by a co-worker in the first instance, but especially by a subordinate; how unacceptable it was, moreover, to have insinuations about a mutual colleague, thrown at her by someone ten years her junior.

But she never thought about Sophie in those terms. She never saw in her questionsanything other than well intentioned, empathetic good sense.

And that was why she replied helplessly, “Honestly, I don’t know. I don’t know if we’ve talked about it. I thought we might have. It felt as if we were. But, it never quite happened, and she clearly doesn’t want to rush into anything, and I’m just worried that… Look, Sophie, I don’t want you to tell me about her life, okay?” she said in a rush. “I don’t want to know anything about her that she hasn’t told me herself, because if she doesn’t tell me, I trust that it’s because she isn’t ready for me to know. And that’s fine.”

“Of course, it’s fine,” Sophie said quietly.

“But,” Marianne muttered hastily, ashamed, “something big happened with her father, didn’t it? Don’t,” she said quickly, “don’t tell me the details.” She took a deep breath. “I just… need to know where to draw the line. Because, I really don’t want to mess things up.” She breathed. “I really don’t want to hurt her.”

Sophie carried on washing. At last, and after quite some time, she said carefully, “My mum still won’t tell me everything. But I get the picture that the Godard divorce was messy. And that everyone around here took Miss Blanchard’s side. Then, of course she got offered the Headship, and he… I mean, I’m sure it wasn’t just about that, but he had a hard time of it.”

“He had a breakdown?” Marianne asked.

“I don’t know the details,” Sophie said. “All I know is, around then, Héloïse came home in a hurry to teach his classes for him.”

“Oh.”

“And the kids started getting really good results.”

Marianne felt instinctively sick. “Shit.”

“And, a little while later,” Sophie said deliberately, “Dr. Godard died.”

Marianne sat down heavily on one of the dusty stools. “Shit.” She put her head in her hand and raked the fingers through her hair.

It was a lot. Abby had said so. As had Miss Blanchard. So had Héloïse, in her way. It was a whole lot. And what had Héloïse ever done to deserve crashing into Marianne? Marianne, who was on the run from everything; who was currently blowing her own life up, just to see how prettily it fell.

‘Slowly, with her,’ Marianne told herself in that moment. ‘Slowly, gently, kindly. And maybe not at all.’

Sophie pulled handfuls of shiny rubber kidneys from the sink, dumping them on the draining board, letting them flop around like catches of the day. “You like each other,” she said. “Don’t you?”

Marianne murmured, “Very much.”

“Well. That’s a good start,” said Sophie. “For most things.” Her face brightened. “Do you want to hear about my love life?”

Marianne sat up straight, pulled herself together. “More than anything in this world,” she said.

“He opened the door for me,” Sophie said. “Even though the other door was already open and he totally didn’t have to.”

“Ah, Sophie,” smiled Marianne. “Truly, this day, you have become a woman.”

“And he added me on Instagram,” Sophie went on with a nonchalant sniff. “And I followed him back. And he doesn’t look like a self absorbed wanker in _any_ of his pictures.”

Marianne laughed. “You dark horse!”

“We’re going for a drink this weekend.” Sophie took her apron off, folding it more carefully than usual. “It’s funny. I know we joke around,” she said. “But I think I might actually want to like him.”


	8. Roots and offshoots

“A photography club!” Nigel exclaimed. His voice was so loud that several pupils in the corridor turned, and Marianne silently reflected on all the many reasons she avoided the upper school. “We haven’t had one of those for years! Have they been signing up?”

“Yes,” Marianne said with a nod.

And they really had been. She and Sophie had hit their ideal number of members within a week, and now, with the half term looming, they had a healthy waiting list in reserve. Marianne was privately tickled.

“A perfect number, actually. Mostly year 7s and 8s. We’ll kick off in the New Year. Need a bit more light.”

“That’s wonderful!” Nigel exclaimed. Afternoon lessons were due to start any moment, but he showed no signs of letting her leave. “Just give me a shout if you want to use the DT shop at any point,” he insisted. “I’ll show you the ropes, lend you a hand.” Marianne thanked him distractedly. “You already know your way around a dark room, of course,” he chuckled, before whispering, “I confess, I had a look at your website.”

Marianne caught something in his voice which she did not entirely like. “Did you?” she asked pointedly.

“With the missus, of course,” he blustered on jovially. The clarification almost made it worse.

“And what did you think?” Marianne asked him.

“Well,” he said, his face dropping. Her tone had not been as neutral, then, as she had intended. “Well. I think they’re very good, obviously,” he said seriously. “And we’re all grown ups.” He coughed uncomfortably. “Some of the older kids,” he murmured, “have started wondering why the naughty-blockers on the school computers flag up your site, though.”

“I painted nudes, Nigel,” Marianne replied, her voice very level and very calm. “It’s okay to say it out loud. Nudes. You know who else did that?”

“Er…” Nigel scratched at the back of his square head. “Titian?” he suggested.

“Go on,” she said, smiling.

“Freud? Botticelli? Picasso? Da Vinci? Velázquez?”

“Everybody,” Marianne mouthed, putting him out of his misery. “Everybody paints nudes. You have to. And some of us made a living from it. Which we were obliged to advertise on a website.” She made to move away, to get to class. “I am sure even a ten year old can understand that,” she said pointedly.

“Yes,” Nigel replied with an uncomfortable laugh. “Yes, you would think so.” Then, he beamed, and the happy dormouse was back. “Good job on the club!” he said, before throwing her a thumbs-up, and striding away towards the staff room.

“What was that about?”

Héloïse was next to her.

It had been a month, of coffees and conversation, of strolls and caution. And Marianne had kept her promise to herself. Slowly. Kindly. She had not even gone to London when she had the chance. The strange mercy of engineering work on the line. She could have taken the bus, but she had not told him that. A convenient excuse to guard against sudden temptation.

Even so, they stood closer these days than they had at first, close enough for Héloïse’s scent to be familiar. She smelled clean; of soap and activity, of washing powder, lambswool, and the lingering wax from her jacket. Marianne wondered if she had been gardening in her lunch break, as she often did. Whether she would ever show her the results.

“I’ll tell you later,” Marianne murmured. And it was such a simple thing to say, but she felt the now familiar, hopeful happiness, nudging through her chest. At the idea that ‘later’ was assumed, and natural, and welcome.

And it was a happy thing, she had to remind herself, as she had been reminding herself over and over, for weeks. This was good. She needed a friend. Everyone needed friends. And Christmas was not so very long a time to wait.

“Are you umpiring the match this afternoon?” Héloïse asked as they walked together.

“Yes.”

“I thought I might watch.”

“Really?”

“If you don’t mind.”

“I don’t. At all.”

As they passed through the double doors into the quad, Héloïse’s elbow grazed Marianne’s forearm, just slightly. And in an instant, all goodness was relative. And Christmas was a thousand lifetimes away.

Héloïse’s face, gazing, curiously dark against the blank October sky.

“Are you all right? Your phone is…”

“Yes, I…” The phone buzzed again in Marianne’s pocket. She yanked herself out of her daze. Two messages. One from Abby, one from Nick. She had lessons to get to, and Héloïse was waiting for her to catch up, twisting on her hips. Marianne opened the one from Abby.

“ _Go on, then. Tell them. Beatrice Jane.”_

And a photograph appeared, of a tiny, wrinkled baby, with a strong black quiff, lying prone on someone’s chest, curled against the light like an angry melon.

“Oh,” Marianne laughed. “Abby’s had another little girl.”

And Héloïse approached, her face spread into a smile that Marianne had never witnessed in life, but recognised instantly, sprung from a greening photograph in a narrow corridor. “Let me see!” she murmured. And she stepped in closer, just to look. Careful, so careful not to touch.

And Marianne was lost, all over again.

“Why do they always want to know the weight?” Sophie wondered aloud. The year sixes were exploring glazes, mystified by the alchemy promised by the kiln, transforming the bland, Pepto-Bismol colours into rich jewel shades, jam shiny and cold.

“Bragging rights,” Marianne replied distantly, keeping an eye on Finn MacDonald. _Things go in his mouth. I am hoping this will stop soon._ “War wounds.”

“But the men always ask too,” Sophie protested. “As if they’re anglers. Bagged an eight pounder,” she grunted. “Massive. Took ten hours.”

Marianne laughed. “Yes, well, if you landed fish by hauling them through your noo-nah, they probably wouldn’t be so keen to share. Finn! Now, what did I say? What did I say right at the beginning of class?”

By the time disaster had been averted, Sophie’s expression had grown very tight and thoughtful. She helped Marianne in the painting of thumb pots, tolerating the childish instinct to try all of the outlandish glazes at once, rather than the most complementary. Taste had to be wrangled slowly, Marianne reasoned, or one risked it curing into something rigid and brittle. When the bell rang, she and Sophie were carefully moving the strawberry milkshake monstrosities onto trays, when her young friend suddenly asked, “Do you want kids?”

“I don’t know,” Marianne answered, as honestly as she could. “I used to think it would be a question of finding the right person. That maybe something would just click on. But, as my friends started to have them, I realised you actually have to need children, on your own, in your gut. And then you find someone to go through that whole shit show with you, because they know they really want it too.” She was feeling something very cold in her stomach, and around her eyes. She wanted desperately to change the subject. “But it’s all really, really hard.”

“My grandmother says not to worry about babies,” Sophie went on, quietly. “That they’ll come when they’re ready, and you’ll grow up to meet them. That they turn into your favourite people.”

“For some, I’m sure that’s true.”

“For everyone in my family it’s true, I think.” Sophie leaned against a counter with her arms crossed. “But, I’m just worried that, for me, it won’t be.”

“It’s okay not to want them,” Marianne told her.

“Is it?” Sophie asked seriously. “The whole world seems structured around convincing me to have them, telling me that I’ll definitely be sorry if I don’t. Until I don’t know any more if what I feel is desire for a child, or fear of regret.”

“Sophie,” Marianne said gently, “you’re so young. Everything changes as you get older. What you feel will change.”

“Has it for you?” she asked.

“Yes,” Marianne replied. ‘Several times,’ she added in her head. She swallowed, and a little of the sick feeling had gone, but not all. “It’s still worth knowing what you want, for who you are, right now.”

Sophie replied, her eyes firm, “I do.”

“Good,” Marianne replied. And, again, she found herself thinking, ‘Miles ahead of me.’

The girls were so excited for the game that Marianne was in danger of catching their nervousness. The Otterbourne parents were out in full force, rare for a Wednesday, and from the court, their voices seemed somehow fruitier, their tone more arch.

“Do none of them have jobs?” Marianne murmured to Mrs Badger, who gave her a look which suggested that if she were not, in fact, stupid, then she may yet have to live with her own naivety.

“Bless you,” she said witheringly. “Coin toss, Marianne. Off you go.”

And with a deep breath, Marianne sounded her whistle. “Captains, please,” she called.

She did not want to look too carefully around the small group of spectators. For one thing, she secretly feared their wrath, and for another, she was almost certain that a particular waxed jacket was not yet in attendance. And she could not decide whether she felt relieved about this, or disappointed.

The game went smoothly if not to the satisfaction of the home crowd. The Otterbourne team were not expected to win. The squad, for one thing, was not at full strength. Hannah Messenger was off with a tummy bug, and the St Winifred’s players all seemed to be a good head taller than their local counterparts. But everyone was playing well, giving a good game. The Winifred’s umpire darted around the court’s edge like a razor blade, ruthless with her own girls. And Marianne felt confident, suddenly, in good hands.

Mrs Badger was calling encouragement to the team. “Play on quickly, Jodie. That’s it. On their toes. Keep them guessing. Good pass, Vivi. Keep it up.”

And with the responsibility for the team lifted from her shoulders, Marianne felt herself zone in. On the flow of play, on the speed of the game. The three second rhythm, the thirds of the court, the switching motion of the players within their allotted territories; it all began to flow together and make sense. Her calls became automatic, easy, precise. She knew her angles, where she would need to be to see play clearly. The process of concentrated, active looking felt so familiar as to be strange to her, like seeing a face in a moving crowd and thinking, ‘Do I know you from somewhere?’, and already knowing the answer.

She had almost forgotten. That she might be expecting someone. Until the third quarter, when she happened to glance towards the grassy bank as she caught her breath, and saw Héloïse, standing by her father’s bench. She was watching intently, her eyes glued to the court, her fingers worried by agitated teeth. Marianne could see every edge of her irises, clear as day, even from this distance. But Héloïse was not watching Marianne. She was watching the game. Suddenly the large hands clapped together. “Come on, Otters! Make some space in there!”

Marianne’s attention snapped back to play. She focussed. But smiled. Every time she heard the firm cheering. The sincerity. The worry. “Come on, Otters! Yes! Jodie, on the wing!”

Afterwards, following the inevitable but worthy defeat, Marianne teetered on the edge of laughter as she wandered up the hill to where Héloïse stood. She tried to rein it in, she really did. But Héloïse just looked so furious.

“Are you all right?” she chuckled.

“Fine,” Héloïse snipped, chewing at her thumb. She breathed heavily, dropping her eyes to her feet. “They really are hamstrung without Hannah, though.”

“They played well,” Marianne replied softly. The girls were beginning to file past. “Well done, Vivi.”

Héloïse seemed to remember herself for a moment and clapped heartily. “Yes! Well done, Otters. Good… good effort!”

“Thank you for coming,” Marianne said. “Who knew you’d get so involved?”

“I did,” Héloïse said quietly. “That’s why I stay away.”

Marianne could not think of a reply.

A voice from behind them interrupted their silence.

“I know you!” The St Winifred’s umpire smiled as she toiled up the steps, not at Marianne, but at Héloïse. “Thought I recognised you from the court, but the old eyes. Can’t trust them over that sort of distance. You were captain, weren’t you, when Otterbourne won the IAPS? When would it have been?”

“2003,” Héloïse said with a polite nod. She didn’t even need to think, the date clearly seared into her memory.

“Yes. Good tournament, that. My girls were heartbroken but, well, I daresay they’re all over it now!” She turned, patted Marianne on her shoulder. “Well done. Wendy tells me it was your first?”

“Yes.”

“Didn’t show at all. Very well done! Come on, girls.” She hoiked herself up the hill on suddenly stiff legs, with a gaggle of her young players fussing around her, fore and aft. “No, they’re very lucky to have you both. We shall all have to watch out for the Otters, won’t we?”

As the small group of the St Winifred’s girls walked away, clearing the path a little, Marianne saw that Jodie had been quietly watching them, an enigmatic expression on her young face.

“Go on,” Marianne told her. “Match tea. You’ll miss it.”

The girl jogged off with a couple of team mates, glancing over her shoulder from time to time, at the pair of teachers lingering on the path behind.

Héloïse would not meet Marianne’s eyes as they strolled back towards the school.

Marianne tried, awkwardly to break the tension. It was like plucking at cheese-wire. “So,” she said. “Captain.”

“Do you have time for a walk?” Héloïse asked her quickly, cutting across her ribbing. “There’s something I want to talk to you about.”

“Now?” Marianne asked. “I don’t. Really.”

“No,” Héloïse repeated resignedly. “Neither do I.”

“This evening?” Marianne suggested.

“I’m supposed to be taking prep.”

“Okay.”

“But I can try to swap.” Her eyes were asking for something; encouragement, maybe. Or permission.

Marianne opened the contacts in her phone, and passed the handset over. “Just let me know,” she said, watching as Héloïse typed in her number slowly, with careful thumbs. Marianne looked at the entry, at the strange name which still did not match. She thought about sending her a missed call. Then, typed a message quickly. “ _Captain Godard_.” And sent it before she changed her mind, dropping her phone into her anorak pocket.

There was no buzz. She looked at Héloïse expectantly, who shrugged. “What?” she said. “It’s in my desk.”

Marianne had begun to laugh. “Héloïse, it’s a mobile,” she giggled. “You take it _with_ you.”

“It’s distracting,” Héloïse protested, but she was grinning too.

“From what?” Marianne crowed.

“From life!”

“You dork.”

“Bully.”

Later, in the studio, as 7C squinted into mirrors, quietly doing self portraits in charcoal and chalk, Marianne heard the writing pips on her phone start up. She immediately silenced the handset. But watched, curiously, as Héloïse, a courtyard and a classroom block away, read, considered, and typed. And paused. And typed again. The process was laborious, clearly. Perhaps even torturous. But when the message finally arrived it said simply.

“ _I mean, I suppose you can salute._ ” And then another, almost immediately. “ _When I see you at 6:30_.”

“What did you want to talk to me about?”

They were strolling around the playing fields this time, the wind whipping the trees overhead. Autumn was finally making itself known in no uncertain terms, the dark falling earlier every day.

“I saw your name on the list,” Héloïse said. “‘On call over the half term,’” she said. She sounded almost accusatory. “I didn’t know you’d be around.”

“No club up and running yet,” Marianne replied resignedly. “I haven’t done my fair share.”

“Mucking in?” Héloïse asked, teasing.

“It’s that sort of place,” Marianne murmured back with the barest hint of a smile.

“I assumed you might be going back to London,” Héloïse commented, just a little awkwardly.

“So did I,” replied Marianne. “But then, they asked me about helping out with the stranded boarders. I realised I hadn’t booked my train. And it seemed so much simpler to stay.”

Héloïse raised her eyebrows, squinted into the middle distance. “Don’t you…” she began. She cast her eyes about, as if searching for a way to say out loud the things that she should not say at all. “I mean, it’s been six weeks.”

“His name is Nick,” Marianne said quietly. “And we can talk about him if you want.”

They walked for a few minutes, silent, relieved that they could wait, that neither of them needed chatter, knowing that this was becoming their dynamic, and that it suited them both.

“I know we said Christmas,” Héloïse began.

“We did.”

“But, if that’s… I mean, are you still paying rent, on your place with him?” Héloïse asked, changing tack halfway through her thought.

“No,” Marianne said. “The flat belongs to his parents.”

“Oh.” She sounded deflated, for some reason. “Is he,” she asked, “an artist too?”

“He went to art college, if that’s what you mean,” she said. “But his family owns a gallery.” And suddenly Marianne was blushing at her memories of first seeing Nick’s life, the gleam of it all. “He’s more interested in that side of things now.”

“The money?” Héloïse asked.

“The scene,” Marianne replied. “Going to college was a way of earning his stripes, I think. Proving he belonged.”

“But now he works for Mum and Dad,” said Héloïse, her voice positively dripping.

For the first time, Marianne disliked her tone. Maybe because she had battled so hard against thinking the same thing herself. “Stones,” she warned. “Glasshouses.” Her voice was quiet and hard, pretending not to see the frown that suddenly creased Héloïse’s brow. “No, he set up on his own,” she explained. “But his name does a lot of heavy lifting for him. Opens doors. Secures loans. Guarantees press.” She sighed, as if resigned to something she had been resisting for years. “And why not?” she muttered. “He can’t help his name, any more than you can. He works very hard. He’s doing very well,” she admitted. “And he’s never been a dick about it.”

“Did he ever show any of your stuff, though?” Héloïse asked.

“He did,” Marianne said distantly, as if speaking about something marvellous and terrible she had dreamed of once, questioning whether, as with all dreams, the telling would reveal its true bizarre form, mortifyingly naked. “Several times, he showed my work,” she said. “Very successfully. He wanted us to be the making of each other. Something glamorous and romantic like that. Maybe we could have been. But the more he told me I could make it in the art world, the less I wanted to make art.”

“Why?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Marianne moaned with a bitter laugh, smiling across at her stern companion. “Why don’t you want to play netball?”

Héloïse paused, thinking, with that same frown etched into her face so deeply and for so long that it looked almost like a scar.

“I don’t like myself,” she said suddenly. “When I play. I don’t like who I become. And I need to like myself. Because I don’t often have anyone else.”

They reached the bottom field, visible beyond the boundary fence, all turned over and ready to be planted, opened up and coiled, like brown scrolls. Héloïse stared out at the horizon. It was a view she must have seen in all its forms, Marianne thought, in all its seasons, throughout all the ages of her own life. Marianne could not imagine that continuity, having roots that ran so deep in a place that they acted as both anchor and chain. Héloïse twisted on her heel, followed the path along the bottom field towards the little grove of conker trees. “Your turn,” she said.

“Art should be connection,” Marianne murmured. “I was just becoming more and more detached. I needed to get away.”

“To find yourself?” and again the tone was icy.

“I never know what people are looking for,” Marianne said quietly, “when they say they want to find themselves. Particularly artists. It seems to be the compulsion of people who cannot stand to look at what’s already there.” Before Héloïse could say anything else, Marianne stopped in her tracks, and asked. “Why are you angry? Do you know? I don’t think it’s really with me.”

“No. It isn’t.”

“Then what?”

“I wish I had known that you were staying,” Héloïse blurted. “I was so prepared for the idea of you going back, for how that would feel. I just wish I’d known.”

“Why?”

“Because,” she said in a huff, “I’m going to Cambridge.” And then smiled at herself, at the sulk she had gotten herself into. “I’m going to… fucking Cambridge, to stay with some friends for the week. To distract myself.” She was blushing. Unmistakably. “And if I’d known…”

“It’s just a week,” Marianne said softly.

“I could change my plans,” Héloïse murmured.

“Don’t.”

“I could try,” said Héloïse, helpless.

“Why? Don’t. Go and see your friends.”

“But, I’ll…”

She stopped. She kicked at the early conker casings with the toe of her boot, sending the cream, unripe fruit arcing into the hedge, hands deep inside her pockets.

Continuing along the path, Marianne said, “I will too.”

And the cat was out, the horse had bolted, and it was the most glorious and terrifying feeling. Freewheeling. Flying. Pump the brakes, Marianne. “But we want to take whatever this is slowly, don’t we?”

“Yes,” she heard from behind her, as Héloïse grumpily followed.

Marianne felt her own heat, neck to knees. There was a ‘we’. There was a ‘this’. “Because a year is a long time, to live in a fish bowl,” she said, “with a mistake of our own making.”

“Yes.” The same tone. The same irritation.

“And we have both been through enough…” Marianne hesitated. “We deserve to be certain about what we want.”

She turned, to look into the baleful eyes, pale and almost colourless in the gathering dusk. “Yes. We do.”

Marianne realised that it would not be long before these evening walks would be off the table. The privacy of the open air, something she had come to associate with Héloïse, the roar and crash of the wind in the trees, the endless rippling of the legion rivers that snaked and trickled across the meadows, the open sigh of the hillside; they would have to be given up, put away for the season. For what? The murmuring curiosity of regulars down the pub? The frosty, polite chatter of restaurant diners? The thought scared her.

“One more walk?” Marianne suggested, trying to keep the apprehension out of her voice. “After the kids go on Friday?”

Héloïse raised supercilious eyebrows. “As friends?”

Marianne let herself laugh. “Well, I like to think I’m friendly.”

“And what about me?”

This time, Marianne smiled more gently, caught the mirrored, confident grin of self-awareness. And the words would not come. “You have other qualities,” she said at last.

And the knowing eyes narrowed, just slightly. Was she smirking? “I think we can manage something,” Héloïse murmured. “Something friendly. If you would like.”

“I would.”

“I would too.” They walked on together. “What _did_ you want,” Héloïse asked after a few paces, “when you came here? If it wasn’t to find yourself?”

Marianne thought for a moment. “The chance to look at myself honestly,” she said, “as I already am, and to like what I see. To like myself again.” She smiled. “The way that you do.”


	9. The Bend in the River

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Contains canon level discussions of death and suicide.

“So for the developer,” Sophie said, squinting at the screen of mystifying chemicals in front of her, “am I ordering the powder or the liquid?”

“Liquid,” Marianne replied distractedly. “Oh, no, wait. Check the shelf life.”

Sophie clicked around the site for a moment. “It says a year?” she replied.

“Yes, liquid,” Marianne replied. “The powders last longer, but far too much can go wrong.”

“And we’ve already got the Adofix plus in the basket, and the paper, and the fuck-off huge thing of stop bath.” Sophie turned on her stool. “There’s trays, and tongs, and… what did you call the big chemical bottles, again?”

“Datatainers,” Marianne told her.

“…and datatainers in the old dark room. You wanted a new bulb for the safelight.”

“I can buy that when the old one goes. No rush,” Marianne called. She was mounting the year five drawings for a new display in the hall; a good activity for winding down, after the madness of the last half day. Meditative. But not too repetitive. Sugar paper and masking tape, the rip zip sound of the tape unwinding on the dispenser, the surprising softness of its tearing, the rough texture of the paper, the smooth of the card.

“ _3:30?_ ” Héloïse had texted that morning.

Marianne had replied, “ _Aye aye,_ ” only to be met with complete silence. She wondered if there was a maximum level of teasing beyond which Héloïse might not show up. She hoped not. She liked the slight sulk to her, the huff, the grudging smiles. She liked reminding her that she was seen.

Marianne had passed Jodie in the sports hall corridor the day before; caught her gazing into the trophy cabinet, scrutinising the pictures and medals and plastic gubbins from victories past, where they gathered dust under halogen bulbs, and generally escaped notice.

“Shouldn’t you be outside, Jodie?” Marianne asked her. “Break time, come on.”

Jodie’s intelligent face had been serious for once, and not in the least calculating. “I can’t find her. Can you?”

Marianne came to the glass, knowing instinctively who they were looking for.

She hunted for dates scratched onto trophies, printed under photographs. She sighed. “It doesn’t go back far enough, I’m afraid,” she said. “See? 2008 is the earliest. That’s how many years ago?”

“Eleven. I was one.”

‘And I was seventeen,’ Marianne thought. Ripped jeans with loud tights beneath. Ruffle skirts for parties, but there were never any parties, really. Just cigarettes and Smirnoff Ice in a friend’s garden, quickly abandoned. And the praise of her art teacher, overwhelming and unfamiliar, more addictive than either the slide of the alcohol or the ease of nicotine.

_You should think about applying._

_I couldn’t be more proud._

_Well, you got in, Marianne. Of course you should go._

She stood away from the cabinet. “The photos will be in the upper school,” she said. “I’m sure you can find them somewhere.”

“Is she better than you?” Jodie asked. “At netball?” Again, her expression, rarely and disarmingly, concealed nothing.

“Much,” Marianne confessed. “I would have thought.”

“So, why doesn’t she coach us?”

“I don’t think that she wants to,” Marianne replied.

“Why?” The voice was outraged. “She would make us better. My mother says if you’re good at something, you should bloody well do it.”

“Language, Jodie.”

“But it is selfish, isn’t it? We could be amazing.”

“Look,” Marianne said with a sigh. “Some people are good at things that make them unhappy. Should we force them into doing them, anyway?”

“Yes,” Jodie said.

“Really?” Marianne raised her eyebrows. “We should _force_ them?”

The girl’s face was suddenly sullen. “No.”

Marianne nodded. “Come on, Jodie. Tracksuit on and out you go.”

Jodie turned at the door of the changing rooms. Before stopping, clarifying. “So, she doesn’t like netball,” she said, as if calculating the bewildering distance between galaxies, “but she _does_ like Latin?”

“Yes, Jodie,” Marianne replied brightly, “It takes all sorts.”

“It’s weird.”

“Jodie!” Marianne exclaimed. “Now, come on. You can’t talk about your teachers like that.”

And the eyebrows rose, and the attitude awakened. And Marianne kicked herself.

“Sorry!” Jodie said, as if she had just been asked to keep the noise down on a Saturday night, or pick up after her dog in the middle of a moor. “But you’re just so lucky, aren’t you?” she asked, with a knowing smile. “To be good at something cool, like art.” She opened the door to the changing room, and spoke smoothly over her shoulder. “No wonder she likes hanging out with you.”

“Should I order?” Sophie asked.

Marianne paused, holding up the drawing. Chickens. Beautiful, lively, Sussex chickens. She was getting quite good at her breeds, now. And at identifying which ones were kept by Nonny, and which ones were _obviously_ just from the internet. “Yes, go for it,” she said. “And remember to…”

“… put everything in the spreadsheet. I know,” Sophie said. “Maths is key.”

“So key.”

There was a decisive couple of clicks. “Farewell, someone else’s money,” Sophie cried with a wave at the screen, before spinning on her stool. “And, I think that’s me finished,” she said softly.

“Well, go on, then,” Marianne replied. “Get out of here and have a good week.”

“Thank you,” Sophie muttered.

“Nice to go home?” Marianne suggested.

“Yes.”

“Real bath?”

“I suppose.” There was a long pause. “Can I still meet you for breakfast, sometimes?”

Marianne glanced over her shoulder, puzzled. “It’s half term, Sophie,” she said. “That precious holiday season, when we get to have breakfast alone, at civilised hours of the day, in pyjamas.”

“It doesn’t have to be early,” Sophie protested. “I can cycle over.”

“Sophie!” Marianne exclaimed. “Go home. Draw something filthy. Come back refreshed.”

“Okay. Fuck. Fine.”

“Anyway, I refuse to believe it’s me that you’ll be missing.”

Sophie picked up her bag from the floor. “I’ll miss all of you,” she said quietly. And her tone was so genuine, and adorably forlorn that Marianne turned.

“How is it going?” she whispered.

“He’s…” Sophie started, but blushed quickly. “He’s just very… nice and… I don’t know,” she muttered. “I’m not used to it. I think.”

“Well, be kind to each other,” Marianne advised.

“I mean, I could handle one or the other, you know?” Sophie said plaintively. “The niceness or the banging. But both, at the same time. It’s…” She swept the floor with a single, dejected foot. “It’s a lot.”

Marianne nodded. “It can feel like a lot,” she confirmed. “Learn to want it, though. It’s better that way.” She felt herself blush, the adult in her rearing up, pushy and opinionated. “Just promise me you’re being careful.”

Sophie nodded, suddenly completely serious. “Oh, of course. Belt and braces. 99% effective, plus 98% effective. It’s… it’s many percent effective.”

“Wise woman.”

Sophie shrugged, as she waved herself out. “Doctor’s daughter.”

By the time Héloïse arrived, Marianne had taken down the old display, had laid the loud, gouache designs out on the empty studio tables. She was still up the ladder with a box of pins, arranging the last of the new drawings. “I’ll just be a second,” she said.

“No rush,” came the voice from below. “Nice chickens.” Héloïse was in her jacket. Marianne could smell it, even without looking round.She could hear the deliberate, careful hands leafing through the old pictures.

“These have been up for ages,” came the dry comment, “haven’t they? The wall looks strange without them.”

Marianne laughed. “I think Abby just got to the point she couldn’t haul the bump up a ladder any more.”

“Fair enough.”

Marianne heard a creak she recognised, and knew that Héloïse had perched on one of the tables below her, probably with her hands in her pockets, her long legs extended out in front, crossed at the ankle. That she was watching. “There was a stage,” Héloïse said, “I remember, before Mrs Baxter retired, she did exactly the same projects, at exactly the same time of year, every year, for literally decades.” She laughed at the memory. “We would get so excited, thinking that, I don’t know, now we’re in year seven, so we get to do the famous wire-head-sculpture project. Or the big magazine collage project.”

“She sounds like a woman with a plan.”

“She was,” Héloïse confirmed. “A plan for every lesson, she would ever teach, ever again.”

“I suppose if it ain’t broke.” Marianne glanced over her shoulder as she spoke. And found that Héloïse was not looking at her at all, but had tucked her chin round into her shrugged shoulder, gazing at nothing. “You try to keep it fresh?” Marianne prompted.

Héloïse laughed. “Me? Oh. Yes,” she said, nodding vigorously. “Just constantly shaking the foundations with ‘Ecce Romani’ book one.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Marianne confessed, even as she smiled.

Héloïse gazed up at her. “Well,” she said softly, “it’s hilarious. Obviously.”

“Of course, it is.” Marianne looked around at her handiwork. “What do you think?” she sighed, already knowing that it would do, and that she would leave it.

Héloïse looked sheepish suddenly. “I don’t go in for decoration much,” she said. “But, it does look like an art display, if that’s worth anything.”

Marianne placed one hand over her heart, and smiled. “High praise,” she said. “Mission accomplished. Big tick for me.” She descended the ladder, folded it up carefully, went to put it in the store cupboard, to find that Héloïse had opened the door for her, without her asking. “It always interests me when people say they aren’t into decorating,” Marianne said.

“Why?”

“You have opinions. You dress well. Why should the space you inhabit be any different?”

“Maybe the permanence?” Héloïse suggested. “The thought that, if you get it wrong, you’ll have to live with it?”

“It doesn’t have to be permanent, if you don’t want it to be.” Marianne folded her arms. “What’s your place like, then?”

Héloïse closed the door, inserted her hands deep into her trouser pockets. “Still not really mine,” she answered, her voice uncomfortable. Marianne waited. “Books,” Héloïse finally confessed. “Lots of books.”

Marianne was smiling. “Sounds perfect,” she said.

And suddenly Héloïse was smiling too. “You think I dress well?”

They walked out of the village a different way that afternoon. The weather had been dry, so Héloïse had suggested they try the river path.

“It’s been flooded for ages,” she said, as they crossed the road by the pub, clambered over another stile and were suddenly standing in green fields, hedged by brambles, “but it looked clear yesterday, when I came by.”

Marianne glanced around them, at the small, isolated paths they were taking, the muddy tracks, leading away from the school, out of the village, in the opposite direction from what she now knew to be Héloïse’s running circuit. Even by village standards, it was remote.

“What made you come by this way?” she asked.

Héloïse smiled round at her, as if she was stupid. “To check that it was clear,” she said.

They had to go single file. The route they took was not a path so much as a shelf, narrow, chalky, rubbed smooth, hugging close to the wide river like the skin on an apple.

“When I was small,” Héloïse called backwards, “this path used to be twice as wide.” She stepped over a chunk of the track that simply wasn’t there any more, a scooped calm inlet for the river, filled with pebbles and flint. “Easily. Every year when it floods, a little more got washed away. They try to contain it with the weir upstream, but it’s all chalk, you know. The whole hill. It dissolves. When the weather’s really bad, the river looks like milk.”

“How long were your parents here before you were born?” Marianne asked.

“They married in 1984,” Héloïse replied with complete confidence. “My Dad used to joke about it. Less so after the divorce. And Otterbourne, I think, was their second job. Came with accommodation, which swayed things. So, maybe three years?”

Marianne laughed.

“What’s funny?”

“Nothing,” Marianne replied, shaking her head. “We moved around a lot,” she explained, “when I was growing up. I just can’t imagine. I think two and a half years was the longest we ever stayed in one place.”

“You and your Dad?”

“Yes,” she said.

“For work?”

Marianne sighed. “He used to say so.” It was strange, being outside of school with Héloïse, in the afternoon sunshine; as if somehow, somewhere, there was a rule being broken, and they risked being found out and punished. But following Héloïse’s shoulders, the crinkled shell of her hood as they pushed past brambles and overgrown branches, seemed so safe, so natural; it was hard to believe she had not been built for this. “He’s a photographer,” Marianne continued at last. “Fashion, mostly. It would have made sense to be based in London, but he hates it. Said he didn’t want that for me.”

“But you ended up there anyway.”

“Yes,” Marianne confirmed. Before confessing, “He was furious.”

“What about?” Héloïse asked.

“The Slade,” she said. “The painting. The staying. The boyfriend. The flat from the parents. Everything. He still is furious, really. But we don’t talk much about it any more. He’s such a grumpy commie bastard.”

“Does he know you’re here?” Héloïse asked.

It was an odd question, even for Héloïse, but given the answer she was obliged to give, Marianne could not fault whatever reasoning prompted it. “No,” she said. “He doesn’t.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t think I’m ready,” Marianne said quietly, “to admit that he might have been right about me.”

Héloïse laughed. “What child ever is?”

They reached a wide bend in the river, where the trees lifted away from the banks and a gated weir churned the brown current in two. A bench overlooked the waterfall, where the water’s surface foamed like stout.

“Do you want to sit?” Marianne asked.

“Not here.”

They carried on, to a point where the path widened a little, and then sloped down to an unexpected view. Meadows. Poppies. Grazing. And in the distance, the next village over, the wind farm, the vague glitter of the bypass, the glow of the distant city.

Héloïse sat down on the bank, her legs stretched out in front of her, her boots flopping sideways, and Marianne joined her, knees drawn up, aware of the coldness of the ground, but affecting not to mind, as clearly it did not bother Héloïse. She was picking at a grass stem, stripping it, with long, deft fingers, when she asked softly.

“How did your mother die?”

And Marianne could not have said how, or why, but the question did not seem sudden to her at all; as if the walk, the day, the whole purpose of their spending time, had been leading them together to this point.

“In a car accident,” she answered. “I don’t know what happened. It was the middle of the day. I was at school.” She turned sharply. “Is it strange that I still don’t want to know?”

“Not in the least,” Héloïse replied.

“I had friends,” Marianne went on, “from college, who had parents die of cancer, or whatever. And I remember watching them go through it and… God, it’s so dark… but wishing there had been at least some of that process for me. That it might have made it easier to understand. It’s a narrative that we’re trained for, isn’t it? Beginning, middle, end. They get sick, they get worse, they die. I didn’t have that,” she whispered. “She dropped me off. And she was fine. And then… Nothing, ever again.”

Héloïse was chewing on her thumb nail. She drew her hand away, drew in a deep, careful breath. “Sucks,” she declared.

And Marianne laughed. “It really does,” she agreed. “So… so much.” She waited a moment for the sobbing laughter to pass. “What happened to your Dad?” she asked.

“Drowned,” Héloïse replied, still chewing on her nail. It was clear that there was more to come. That there had to be. But still, Héloïse chewed, and the frown persisted, until the silence became more expressive than speech. “I don’t think,” she said at last, “that I’m ready.” And she glanced up, and her eyes were huge. “I’m sorry. I thought I would be.”

“Whenever is fine,” Marianne reassured her.

“I’m sorry,” murmured Héloïse. “It’s not fair, is it? You told me.”

“It’s not about that.”

“I’m still sorry.” They didn’t speak for a while, instead watching the light fade over the fields, into the richer colours of evening.

“It must be beautiful up here in winter,” Marianne said suddenly. “All frosty.”

“It is,” Héloïse nodded. “Excessive. If anyone painted it, it would look tacky. Like one of those Christmas scenes, etched in glass.”

“Can we come and see it?”

“I’d like that.”

Suddenly, as if pushed by an unseen hand, Héloïse lay back on the earth, her arms above her head, her eyes closed. “There was a lot of alcohol in his system,” she said very quickly. “They kept calling it an accident. And it could have been. I suppose. But every time they said it; I just thought, ‘Bullshit. Bull. Shit.’”

Marianne sat very still, very quiet, watching her face. Waiting for the clenched eyes to slide open, to check on whether the world outside, or at least the part of it reflected in Marianne’s calm gaze, had ended. When the dark lashes finally did part, it was to reveal a look of surprise, and needless shame.

Marianne asked, “Are you okay?”

“Yes.” And then, “You really didn’t know?” she asked. Marianne shook her head. “Funny. It feels to me as though everybody’s talking about it all the time.”

“They’re not,” Marianne murmured. “I promise.”

“Oh.” The green of the eyes fluttered for a moment, like wind through rushes. “Maybe, in a way,” Héloïse said, her smile rueful, “that’s a little worse.”

They walked back, talking steadily about nothing in particular.

“Chips?” Marianne asked, as they crossed back into the village.

“Sure,” Héloïse replied. “But we’ll have to sneak them past the guards.”

“We’re not done?”

“We are not.”

They skirted around the old buildings like giggling truants, sneaking past the upper school and the Master’s house. After two unfamiliar turns, they came upon the walls of the old chapel. Long ago, it must have been absorbed into the modern extension as the school swelled, but here, the knapped flint jutted out from the brick, like a hairy barnacle on the back of a whale.

“This way,” Héloïse murmured, forging ahead along the flagstone path, her hand brushing over the flints as they went.

At the chapel’s east end, there was a high wall with a door in it. And in passing through the door

they were suddenly in a garden.

“Oh,” Marianne said, knowing, as if dazzled by bright water. “Here it is.”

The walled enclosure had been laid out into little allotments, name tags marked proudly at the head of every bed, the soil neatly turned and ready. But as she passed by the names, she realised that she didn’t recognise any of them. That they must have been old, the black marker on the garden labels blotting into purples and blues. There was a greenhouse. Long rows of spiny bushes, which looked like gooseberries. Frames for raspberries, currently bare. And on every wall, fruit trees snaked sideways, clinging like solid murals.

Héloïse turned, grinned shyly. Extended her arms.

“Welcome to gardening club,” she said. Before scanning the empty beds and adding, “May it rest in peace.”

Marianne looked around her. She could not help smiling. “And rise in glory,” she whispered.

They sat on the little patch of lawn by the greenhouse. Héloïse had ducked quickly inside, sheepishly brought out a blanket, which she spread out for them both.

“You maintain all this?” Marianne asked, picking at the bag of chips.

“I try to keep on top of it,” Héloïse replied. “Wasn’t ever my baby but, it would be a shame to let it run wild.”

“You don’t run it as a club, though?”

“No,” she said, firmly. “I just keep it ticking over,” she said. “Until someone wants to take it on properly.”

Marianne frowned. “But,” she said confused, “wouldn’t it be less work? If you had the kids to help you?”

But Héloïse had lowered her eyes, dusting off her hands. She was standing already. “Are you thirsty?” she asked, and strode over to the rain butt before Marianne could reply.

“I don’t think that’s good for drinking,” Marianne laughed after her, only to watch, as Héloïse reached her hand into the water. She drew out a bottle of wine, which had been suspended beneath the dark surface on a length of gardening twine. And the laugh stopped somewhere in Marianne’s chest, something deeper, and altogether warmer welling up in its place.

Héloïse had planned. There would be glasses hidden somewhere in the greenhouse. The blanket had been brought out especially. She had prepared. Something friendly.

“Here,” Héloïse said, handing the bottle down as she stomped back, heading into the greenhouse. “I’ve just got to…”

Marianne looked at the label. South African. She knew nothing about wine. “The First Lady?” she asked.

“It’s nice,” came the brisk reply. “I mean, I like it. But then, I don’t like them too oaky, so I hope you…” There was a groan of frustration, and Héloïse reemerged from the greenhouse with two glasses, shaking one of them vigorously over a flowerbed. “Spiders,” she muttered.

Marianne laughed, horrified. “You should not have told me that,” she said.

“Does that matter?” Héloïse asked, mid shake.

“Yes!”

“Oh.” She gazed into the now empty vessels, clearly disappointed, annoyed with herself. And Marianne could not bear it for long.

She opened the bottle, held it out to Héloïse, asked quietly, “Do we need glasses?”

And that was how Miss Blanchard found them later, reclining on a blanket in the last of the evening sun, eating chips out of the bag, and passing a bottle of chardonnay back and forth between them.

Héloïse was reciting something; her voice sweet, and shyly earnest. And Marianne could not remember what it was, now, except that it seemed rich, and ancient, and funny. And the wine made it seem more real, brought out the colour of the verses in a bath of honey and citrus.

And there was the smell of old grass cuttings and compost, and the waft of tomato plants from the warmth of the greenhouse.

And chips.

“Chips, Héloïse?”

Miss Blanchard was wheeling a dutch bicycle, baskets front and back laden with groceries. She had stopped mid stride to watch them, and her face was only mildly disapproving.

Héloïse winced up at her mother, sipped from the bottle, waggled her feet. “It’s the holidays,” she said stoutly. “And they were Marianne’s idea.”

Miss Blanchard raised an eyebrow. “My daughter, it would seem, is not terribly gallant,” she commented.

Marianne smiled, the wine making her feel warm and untroubled. “Honest, though,” she said with a grin.

“Hm. Is that the Warwick?” Miss Blanchard asked, as Héloïse sipped again.

“Yes.”

“Well.” She pushed onwards. “I suppose I’m glad you’re not drinking it alone. Goodnight, you two,” she called. “Not too late, please.”

Héloïse watched her mother go a pace or two, her back, narrow shouldered and small-looking in her dark coat, fading quickly into the gloom, where the wall of the garden led round to the rear of the house.

“Mummy,” Héloïse said very suddenly. She bounced onto her feet, taking a chip from the bag, the largest that remained, and ran over to her mother, popping it into the waiting, disapproving mouth, before jogging back. “Night night.”

“So much salt, Héloïse.”

“Goodnight, Mummy!”

“Goodnight, both of you.”

Marianne sipped from the bottle, felt the warmth as Héloïse collapsed back down beside her, wondered how long a week was, really, when measured in chips, and walks, and easy silences, passed the bottle automatically when she felt the reach of the long arm, the searching hand.

“Thank you for today,” she murmured.

Héloïse smiled, dipped her eyes. Swigged. “I’m running out of things to show you,” she said.

Marianne found that she was watching her, slow and deliberate. “I don’t believe that’s possible.”

A moment, a surprised blink, a recovery. The pass of the bottle. “Friendly enough?” Héloïse asked. “Because,” and here she twined a finger in the zip of her own jacket, round and round, “Marianne, you do know that friends would be good, too. Don’t you?”

“Yes,” Marianne found herself replying automatically.

But she knew in her belly as she said it that, with one word, she had told a bland truth and an ever-deepening lie.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Why not check back tomorrow, for possible spooky bonus content? I don't know. Might be fun.
> 
> 🎃


	10. A Clutch of Curses

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is of course a big cheat. I just want the series to finish on a Friday, and could not resist publishing the Hallowe'en episode ON Hallowe'en, when it became clear it would line up. SURPRISE!

“This first one will be very quick,” Marianne said.

“How long?” Miss Blanchard asked, uneasily. “I’m expecting a call.”

Marianne brought the light meter near the nervy face. “Twenty seconds,” she calculated.

Miss Blanchard wetted her lips, as she sat, rigid in her armchair, eyeing Marianne’s quick practised movements like a dog at the vet’s. “That is a very high tech gizmo,” she commented, “to go with a very wooden box.”

Marianne chuckled easily. She was excited, completely in her element as she darted back and forth between her subject and camera, perched ready on its tripod. She checked the sight lines for the umpteenth time, adjusted the shades on the lamp ever so slightly, softening the shadows.

“This one is my favourite,” she said. “A friend made it for me.”

“Well, it’s a pretty thing.”

“I take it with me everywhere,” Marianne murmured. “Now, choose somewhere to look so the light is not bothering you.” Miss Blanchard looked out into the middle distance to the left of the lens, straight ahead, her hands flat on her thighs. “That’s good. Are you comfortable?” A nod. “And ready? Open.” Marianne slid the button on the box’s face down, uncovering the pinhole, felt the comfort of the magnets catching, the excitement of something beginning.

Miss Blanchard tensed just a little; held firm. People were so used to the flash-bang of the modern photograph, Marianne considered. Time seemed to grip them hard. She found herself almost as interested by how people clenched in front of a camera, as by how they posed; waiting for it to be over, bracing for impact. ‘Live,’ she wanted to tell them. ‘Breathe. Be.’

“How was your half term?” Marianne asked, hoping for her model to relax a little.

“Busy,” Miss Blanchard mumbled, trying not to move her mouth. “Yours?”

The four-by-four had pulled up much too fast on the school drive, spraying gravel onto the lawn. The crunch of it had caused Marianne to turn with a start. The boarder orphans, stuck in the school for the half term holidays, were all running around the bottom field playing a game of manhunt, and she was doing her level best to keep count of them as they all dashed about and hid from one another. But the distraction of the new arrival was not helping.

The doors of the car thumped heavily open, revealing a tan leather interior, and a sullen Jodie Postlethwaite. As the girl clambered out, the driver’s side window descended regally, and a woman wearing sunglasses on an October morning called out to Marianne.

“I’m just meeting Veronica,” she announced.

Marianne frowned. At a loss. “Mrs Postlethwaite, is it?” she shouted back, feeling stupid.

The car began to pull off, heading for the upper school car park. “She can play with you for an hour or so,” the woman called. “Not too long.”

The car fizzed away, gleaming round the bend in the driveway; and Jodie and Marianne were left staring at one another for a moment.

Marianne shrugged. Fine. Apparently she was day care, now. She smiled uncomfortably at Jodie, and nodded over to the bottom field. “Do you want to go, and join in with the others?” she asked.

“Not really,” came the mortified reply.

“It was interesting,” Marianne said. “I suppose I had never really thought about what happens in a school during breaks.”

Miss Blanchard tried not to move as she laughed. “Everybody breathes,” she answered.

“It was nice seeing the kids able to be, I don’t know, a bit freer,” Marianne went on.

“You’re very good with them.”

Marianne snapped the pinhole shut. And smiled to herself, wishing that the compliment hadn’t meant quite so much. Puzzled by it. “That’s the first one. Time for one more?” she asked, wriggling the dark slide back in place and removing the clips for the film holder.

“Twenty more seconds of my precious time?” Miss Blanchard demanded, resisting a playful smile. “Go on, then.”

Marianne flipped the film, clipped it secure. “They’re such beautiful grounds,” she murmured. “Must have been lovely for Héloïse, growing up.”

Miss Blanchard convulsed with a sudden laugh. “She used to run wild in the holidays.”

“Have you picked a spot?” Marianne asked. “And ready? Open.”

Miss Blanchard talked on, through still lips. “She used to have the place to herself back then,” she said. “The school was smaller. Fewer staff children. None her age. God knows where she went to all on her own, but she always came back, covered in chalk, and sticky weed, and nettle stings. She would sometimes forget the book she was reading under whatever hedge she had clambered into.”

Marianne closed the shutter quietly, unwilling to interrupt.

“And the groundsmen would bring them back in the winter, like rotten fruit. Good for nothing but the bonfire.”

“We’re finished,” Marianne said softly, replacing the second dark slide, switching off the lamp. “Thank you.” Miss Blanchard did not move.

“She thinks of herself as being self-sufficient, doesn’t she? But sometimes,” she said, her eyes very still, as if unaware that the light had all been gathered, and that she could resurface if she chose, “I worry that I have raised a rather lonely person.”

Jodie had sat beside Marianne at the top of the wooden steps, frowning out at the play of younger children. It took Marianne a brief moment to realise that the girl was copying her posture, fingers intertwined over knees, legs slightly extended away, always compensating for her unmanageable lankiness.

“Do you have brothers and sisters, Jodie?” she asked.

“Yes,” Jodie replied. “Three.”

Marianne blinked, surprised. “I had no idea,” she said. “Not at the school?”

“No,” said Jodie with a carved scowl. “They’re all grown up. I have a nephew, too.”

And something clicked in Marianne’s head. “That must be nice,” she said, carefully. “Do you see them much?”

Jodie did not answer the question. “Do you?” she asked instead. “Have brothers and sisters?”

“No.”

A big sigh. “You’re lucky,” she said, sounding forty at the very least.

“I never used to think so,” Marianne confessed.

“No, you are. Sometimes,” Jodie declared, shaking her head, “you’re just better off without them.”

There was something about the way the words were hurled out into the space between them, that made Marianne think perhaps, rather than pronouncements, these were questions; big questions, which Marianne felt singularly under-qualified to answer. “I’m sure you’ll find you all have more in common when you’re a bit older,” she said gently.

“That’s what Daddy says.”

“Are you sure you don’t want to go and have a run around?” Marianne asked. “Paulie is out there somewhere, and Hector. And I can come and find you when your mum comes back.”

Jodie looked down at her shoes, pristine trainers, the soles blinding white, perfect as icing on a Christmas cake. “They’re new,” she said.

Marianne looked at them carefully. “And made for running,” she pointed out.

The girl appeared to think about this, tipping her toes in to touch one another, before launching herself off the wall, and jogging across the field without a word.

“Before you run off,” Miss Blanchard asked her, the session concluded, “I wonder if I could beg your help with one more thing.”

“Please,” Marianne said, collapsing the tripod.

“Hallowe’en.” The headmistress uttered the word with a sigh that spoke entire volumes of dread. “We have to be strict with what the day children can bring in. And we have to be so careful that the ‘tricking’ nonsense does not get out of hand.” She rolled her eyes. “Insurance.”

“Of course.”

“But it’s a shame for the boarders if there’s nothing.” Her face looked suddenly hopeful. “How would you feel about organising something small?”

“I’ll give it some thought.”

Miss Blanchard looked gratified. “Pop in,” she invited. “Run it by me.”

By the time Marianne got back to the art block, Héloïse was waiting in the corridor. She was leaning against the wall with her hands in her pockets. Her dark blue jumper had tucked itself above her waist, showing the brown line of a belt around her hips, the shine of a buckle. Marianne felt herself warm. The children would not start back until tomorrow. There were no lessons, and therefore no break time; no convenient social excuse of coffee.

But then, they had strayed a little beyond excuses.

“I wondered where you were,” said Héloïse, trying not to smile too wide.

“Where _I_ was?” Marianne replied, catching the playful tone. “I,” she declared, “have been wrangling boarder orphans. Where the hell have you been?” She shot Héloïse a loaded glance. “I could have done with some backup.”

Marianne had caught sight of Jodie several times that afternoon on the field, chasing after Hector mainly, shrieking delightedly at the rough and tumble of the game. Manhunt had to be a strange workout for the emotions, Marianne considered; the way it turned on a farthing, your pursuer becoming your ally with a touch on the shoulder; the thrill of seeing a running figure in the distance, and not knowing, friend or foe, friend or foe. And the helpless victories; realising that if you were suddenly cornered, with everyone arraigned against you, it was only because you had won.

“Where is she?”

Marianne made sure to turn slowly. The voice had been commanding, and she was determined not to be easily dismayed. She indicated the sweep of the field with one arm, the scattered children running and yelping. “Playing,” she replied.

Mrs Postlethwaite was wearing a pale suit, and inappropriate shoes. She hung back on the tarmac of the driveway, clutching a mobile in her manicured hand. “Well, I have to go,” she announced. “I said an hour.”

“Does Jodie wear a watch?” Marianne asked her.

The look Mrs Postlethwaite gave her bordered on horror. “Who wears a watch any more?” she demanded.

Marianne sighed, if only because there was so much about the woman that, were she honest, she recognised instantly and intimately. The tailoring. The sunglasses. The hurry. There, but for the grace of Abby…

She called out over the field. “Jodie!”

A little figure turned, bobbed uncertainly, unwillingly, said something to one of the boys on the field that Marianne could not make out, began jogging back.

There was a sigh from behind Marianne’s shoulder. “Come on, Jodie! Please!”

The running figure called out joyfully as she approached, “Can I stay a bit, Mummy?” The colour was high on her face, sweat in her hair.

“No, darling. We’re late as it is.”

“Can I come again, then?”

“No, sweetheart. You know we’re going up to town. And, oh, Jodie! What did I tell you when we bought those?” Jodie looked down at her shoes, now stained gloriously green, smeared with mud, one leaf clinging beneath a lace. “What did I say, when you begged me?” Mrs Postlethwaite demanded.

“To keep them nice,” Jodie muttered.

“Two days! And… just look at them!” There was a despairing exhalation. “I suppose we’ll have to see if they’ll bleach or something. Come on.” Jodie traipsed past Marianne, not meeting her eye, not acknowledging her at all. Fuming. “Just look at you, Jodie… Where on earth have you been?”

“Here and there,” Héloïse replied, watching Marianne’s movements. “Thither and yon.”

“Yon?” Marianne asked, unlocking the studio. “How exotic.”

“Oh absolutely. Got to get over to yon. It’s lovely this time of year.”

“I see,” she said. “And what did you get up to? Over yon?”

“Saw friends. Drank too much. Missed you.”

Marianne paused in the doorway, the awkward angles of the wide camera flexing her hand open. She could see the tendon of her own thumb, and the definition of all her fingers, straining. Something new, then, to go with the warm, glad feeling; a shakiness, a tremor that was less like fear than the feel of an orchestra tuning. Although, not yet; not that just yet. That would come. No, it was the sensation of a bow, drawn over a single string; a vibration that promised beauty.

She looked at Héloïse, felt a smile pull at her lips, wrestled against the door and got it open. “Do you want a coffee?” she asked.

Héloïse was already nodding, smiling, a colour in her cheeks and something in her eyes, that looked like relief. Like pride. Someone who had climbed the highest tree, the one that really wasn’t allowed, swayed on its uppermost branches, and made it back down in one piece. “I’ll put the kettle on,” she said. “What’s in the camera?”

“Your mother,” Marianne replied, “as it happens.”

“Oh.” And something minute shifted in Héloïse’s countenance; not displeasure quite, but an apprehension. “That’s started, has it?”

“We’re doing costumes?” Sophie demanded. “Tomorrow? We’re doing costumes and trick-or-treating with the boarders?”

“No,” Marianne corrected. “I have agreed with Miss Blanchard that _I’m_ doing costumes. And the on-call staff are helping with trick-or-treating. You are in no way obliged. You do not have to stay if you don’t want to.”

“Are you out of your beautiful mind?” Sophie exclaimed. “I am _so_ in. I am _so_ inspired. I’m seeing witches’ hats. I’m seeing Frankenstein’s monster. I’m seeing zombie face paint.” She appeared to think for a moment. “Can the baby cousins join in? I promise to count them. I will count them constantly.”

“It’s supposed to be for the boarders,” Marianne warned.

“I know,” Sophie said, “but Hallowe’en really isn’t a big thing here, and the houses in the village are too spread out, and they just want to be tiny Americans so badly…”

“You do know this means finally revealing their identities, don’t you?” Marianne asked.

Sophie set her jaw grimly. “I can’t protect them forever,” she said. “Their time has come. What are you going to do about tricks?”

Marianne smiled to herself. “I have been thinking about that one,” she said.

“Curses!” she announced to the rapt studio.

Sophie had demanded that they ‘set the mood’ and Marianne, after only a little colourful cajoling, had caved. It hadn’t been much to ask, really. A couple of gels from the theatre store were casting a baleful glare in the far corners, and the speakers were softly playing ‘Night on Bald Mountain’ and ‘Baba Yaga’. Marianne addressed a small group of entranced looking boarders, while others made hats, or had their faces painted. “On each piece of paper, do you see? An ancient curse has been written Hector please don’t do that or you will have to go and stand outside won’t you?”

“Are they in Latin?”

“They are,” Marianne confirmed.

“What do they say?”

“If I told you, Hamish, then the curse would be unleashed. Now, we are going to fold a few of these each into the shapes of ravens or beetles. And, when we all go trick or treating later, if you think anyone deserves to be tricked, maybe the head of DT, for example, he’s very tricksy, we are going to leave one of these for them to find.”

“What do they do?” Emilia asked, a nervous giggle in her throat.

Marianne smiled craftily. “Nothing at all,” she said, before whispering, “unless the paper is opened!”

The boarders were happily folding away when the knock came at the door. Marianne knew before she even looked round. Héloïse. She had half expected her at some point. But had not expected her to bring company.

She was standing in the doorway, beside a furtive looking Jodie.

“Can we join in?” she asked, her face carefully neutral, even as her eyes twinkled. “Our mothers are talking and we’re very bored.”

She was surveying the room, a little later, shoulders raised, arms crossed tight. “Mummy talked you into doing all this?” she asked.

Marianne caught something in the tone. “No,” she replied deliberately. “I was made aware of the need for something to be done, and I am doing it.”

Héloïse nodded at Jodie, where she was laughing excitedly with Hector and Emilia. “Babysitting for the board of governors?” she enquired.

Marianne couldn’t say anything. She suspected that the girl would be able to hear them if she did. Instead, she nodded at Sophie’s little tribe of dark-haired cousins. “And assorted local dignitaries,” she pointed out smoothly.

“I just didn’t think that would be your thing.”

Marianne glared defiantly, and saw that the eyes staring back, usually so expressive, had retreated behind their fortifications again, into that cold untouchable place. She softened. “I don’t mind mucking in,” she murmured. “I like it, in fact. Feeling as though I belong to something. I’m sorry if that disappoints you.”

The expression flickered. “It doesn’t,” Héloïse muttered back. “I just don’t like to see them exploit that instinct.”

Marianne swallowed slowly, “So, you don’t trust me to stand up for myself?” she asked.

“You don’t know them like I do,” Héloïse replied. But her eyes had returned from wherever they went to in those still moments, gentle and sorry. She pointed at some of the completed curses. “Ah, yes, the traditional Hallowe’en origami cranes,” she said lightly.

“Please,” Marianne replied, quite put out. “They are _ravens_.”

And suddenly Héloïse was smiling. “Very creative. Cost effective and genuinely sinister.”

“I try.”

“And the curses?” Héloïse picked up one of the unfolded papers and read.

Marianne muttered, “Not out loud, please, or you will ruin everything.” Héloïse read for a moment, and then laughed. Marianne grinned. “Genuine, ancient curses.”

Héloïse wiped at her eyes. “You could have asked me,” she said, her mirth subsiding into a gentle smile, “for some more relevant Latin, if you’d liked.”

“I wanted to make you laugh,” Marianne said. “And I knew it wouldn’t be _your_ thing.”

Héloïse’s stare clung for just an instant. And then she stood up and away from the desk. “I should go,” she said softly, “and do some marking.”

Marianne tried not to let her disappointment show in front of a room full of pupils. “Alone?” she asked. “On Hallowe’en? Forty years of popular culture tells me this is a bad idea.”

“I’d only slow you down,” Héloïse replied, making for the door. “Save yourselves!”

“You know,” Marianne offered, “you could bring your work in here, if you wanted. Where it’s safe.”

Héloïse grinned at her across the room, her eyes shining, but her face a little tense. “You were right,” she mouthed, before waving her hands at the lighting, the face painting, the glaring excitement. “Just. Not my thing.”

Marianne toured around the quad later, checking on the progress of the trick-or-treaters as they dashed about in the dark, scaring one another, and being terrified in turn. The light was off in Héloïse’s classroom, she noticed. Wondering whether something was wrong, Marianne changed her route, increased her pace just slightly.

She found that she was worrying. Maybe, like with the Glass and the Kafka, she had spoiled something, played the wrong tune, prodded a hidden bruise, hurt without realising. She tried not to look around, for a tall shape marching away into the night, or for a long, leaning figure, looking out at nothing, blending so completely into the fabric of the school that she was barely present.

But as she approached the classroom, Marianne could see that the brick of the classroom step was scattered with curses. And there was an eerie light, shining from within.

She knocked, slowly opened the door, and found Héloïse sitting at her desk in the darkness, her phone balanced on a pile of books, illuminating her marking in the weak glow of its pale screen. She looked at Marianne, fingers twined in her blonde hair, green biro poised, with an expression suggesting that this setup was the most natural thing in the world.

At last, eyes bat-wide in the gloom, she said reluctantly, “They kept asking me for treats. And I didn’t have any.”

And Marianne laughed. Clinging onto the door handle, she doubled over in laughter.

“Hold on,” she wheezed.

She reached into her pocket, brought out an emergency bag of bouncy balls, threw them at Héloïse, still giggling. She counted the sinister menagerie on the doorstep; fifteen. Fifteen disgruntled children, cursing Héloïse in folded paper and cod Latin.

“You have made enemies this day,” she said, trying to appear serious, indicating the collection.

“Have I?” The face was open, vulnerable, before realisation seemed to hit. “Oh, those,” she said, with a smile. “Well. They seemed to enjoy it.” The pen spun in her fingers, a nervous whirl of balance. “Just doing my bit. I suppose.”

As the evening progressed, Marianne saw more and more children playing with bouncy balls on the main quad, hurling them into the ground, arching backwards on their spines to see how high they would rebound, and how completely they would disappear into the dark sky above.

“Ten more minutes, everybody!”

Over the excitement, Marianne saw the light in the Classics room go out, properly this time, and the tall figure exit. She watched as Héloïse first locked up, and then, stooped, to gather together her night’s winnings. Even from across the court, Marianne could tell how gentle she was being, cradling the little paper curses like ducklings in carefully rigid fingers. As she turned, it was clear that Héloïse was hunting the courtyard, searching the gloom. And Marianne could tell, too, when she had been spotted, feel it, a snapping pluck on the line of their distance. But Héloïse had no hands free, burdened as she was with her fragile cargo, and she could only stare. And stare.

Marianne raised an arm, waved.

And the blonde head nodded once, before she walked away under the beams.

And only one of the children had noticed the exchange at all, watched Héloïse’s departure with a rapt attention; the child still waiting after hours for her parent to be ready for her, wearing trainers, made for running, that were once again a blinding white.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For all your spooky Hallowe'en musical needs, ridiculousmavis has updated Far from the Tree spotify playlist:
> 
> [Now That's What I Call Atonal Postmodern Symphonic](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/3fPdiEQLH73sqSmaYFLYEP?si=bE3gE0IJRhid9Lp3ZFXPag)


	11. At the Surface

The second half of the winter term was mad. Abby had warned her that it would be. _Mad as a badger in a briefcase._ Every lesson was geared towards the next circle on the calendar, the next festival, the next holiday; fireworks night, followed by Remembrance Sunday, followed by Advent, Christingle, and Christmas, Christmas, Christmas interfering with everything.

And the approach of the holiday brought its own particular questions for Marianne.

She discussed it with Héloïse only once, on fireworks night. They were standing on the rise of the bottom field, side by side, away from the crowd of children and their enraptured parents, the blaze of sparklers, and the smell of hotdogs. The weather had grown cold suddenly, and the vapour from their tipped heads clouded around them like a solicitous fog.

“Have you decided?” Héloïse had asked.

“Yes,” Marianne replied, knowing that she meant about Christmas; aching at the knowing. “It still feels like so many things at once.”

“It doesn’t have to be,” Héloïse said. “Better, if it isn’t.”

Shabby habits. “I know,” Marianne agreed quietly. “I am trying.”

They were firing off the big rockets now, the ones that justified the price of admission, exploding expensively in the night like dissolving showers of Swarovski.

“You could stay,” Héloïse went on. “If it made it any easier.”

“I think,” Marianne had replied after a long pause, “that I shouldn’t want to make it easy. That it wouldn’t be fair to try.”

The display was enthusiastic rather than polished. Through the smoke towards the junior school, they could see the fractured shadow of Nigel in his rugby shirt, lurching about delightedly, lighting rockets and retreating, as if he were dancing a strange solo Morris with the fuses.

“Where will you be?” Marianne asked.

“Here,” Héloïse said simply. “Mummy demands. You?”

Marianne had not thought. “No plan. With my father, I suspect,” she said, frowning.

“Home?” Héloïse must have caught something in her expression. “Not home,” she hazarded.

Marianne shook her head firmly. “No.”

The final rocket erupted in a perfect sphere of blue and white sparks; the school colours. Héloïse groaned, but the crowd applauded. There was of course, the inevitable chorus of children, high on sugar and whizzbangs, asking loudly whether that was _it_ , and wanting more explosions, more fire, more candy floss before home and bed. All in all, the night had been a great success.

“And then we do it all again for the Lumina,” Héloïse commented. “With a bonfire and carols and rain.”

“The magic of Christmas.”

Together they looked out over the bottom field.

Away in the gloom, hidden from the crowd by the distance and the dark, a couple were wrapped up in one another under the stars. Sophie and Miles, embracing, gently turning round one another, his jacket wrapped around her back, she standing on her tip toes, pressing up into him, like a balloon nuzzling against a ceiling.

“They shouldn’t be doing that,” Héloïse murmured. “Not on school property.”

“Let them be,” Marianne whispered back.

Héloïse was too near, suddenly. And nowhere near enough. Marianne could hear her breath, the way it had shifted, the soft sound of her mouth as it opened, the worry of her lip under her teeth, when she swallowed. She found she had to lean away; realised that Héloïse had done the same.

“Do you want cider?” Marianne asked, her mouth suddenly dry.

Héloïse, “Yes,” turning away. “I’ll go.” She walked back to the steaming food tables with her shoulders hunched, her eyes averted.

Watching her shape, Marianne allowed herself to imagine, for just a moment, how it would feel. Until her body made it cripplingly plain to her that this was something that, yes, she definitely wanted, and therefore must guard against. For now. She followed at a distance.

That night, she pictured Héloïse, actively, deliberately, and it was all so easy. And that, in its own way, was terrifying too.

“ _Six weeks_ ,” Nick had texted her with a smiley face.

“ _I’ll come up over the exeat_ ,” she had replied, and knew it was the right decision. Then, she looked at the message, and realised; the word she had used without thinking, the jargon she had tumbled into unawares. “ _Over the long weekend_ ,” she translated.

“ _TWO weeks_!” he had texted back. And she nearly hadn’t the heart to reply at all.

“ _See you then._ ”

She and Héloïse did have an argument of sorts. Between painting the Houses of Parliament and firing glazed poppies, and angels and robins and cotton wad snow, Marianne found time for them to go walking together. They trudged out across the water meadows towards the hill, boots sinking ankle deep into the mulch, the very landscape seeping like a sponge. It was cold, and Marianne had been umpiring that day, so she wore the school scarf she had been given under her coat. Héloïse was in a huff about it.

“You’re buying in,” she grumbled.

“It’s freezing,” Marianne replied, thinking of other things, and wishing that she wasn’t.

“School spirit. Colours. Hip hip hurrah and one for good luck.” Héloïse had rounded on her. “I thought you might be able to see all that for what it is.”

“ _Did_ you?” Marianne stopped on the hill path and laughed. “You know how you were moaning,” she said, “about what’s-his-face leaning back on his chair?”

“Adrian. Yes. Idiot.”

“Someone did that in one of my schools, and went right over,” Marianne told her.

“Did he break his neck?”

“He broke the wall, Héloïse,” Marianne replied, her arms folded. “Straight through the plasterboard and into Mr Wallace’s next door. Those are the kinds of schools I went to my whole life,” she said, “so if you want to talk to me about what Otterbourne _really_ is…”

Héloïse interrupted dangerously, “Are you going to tell me that I don’t know how lucky I am?”

“No,” Marianne said. “I think you’re well aware. But I also think you hate being made to feel grateful.” Héloïse was silent for a long moment, unmoving, as if unable to deny the truth of Marianne’s statement but, for all its accuracy, resenting it no less. Marianne sighed, looked down at the offending crest around her throat. “This is a costume,” she said, “one that I have to put on every day, just to be let in the door. It’s different for you.”

“How?”

“You belong,” Marianne said softly, “without ever meaning to. I’ve never belonged anywhere.”

Héloïse let her eyes drop a little, nodded to herself, stared out at the view for a moment, puffed her cheeks into the cold. “Do you ever worry you’re liked for the worst parts of yourself?” she asked.

Marianne nodded, toiling up the hill to join her. “All the time.”

At the top, they shared a thermos of tea, and watched the cows, and laughed about nothing and everything.

The long weekend of the exeat came. Marianne’s train ticket had been booked for weeks this time. She was ready. The journey zipped past, in a blur of steep rhododendron bushes, and blank, glaring fields. London, for the first time in years, bewildered her. Everyone was tall.

“You said you would use the time to figure some stuff out.”

“I did.”

“You said that it would give us both space; that it would be good for us.”

“It has been.”

“How is this good?”

“Isn’t it better to know for sure? Sooner rather than later?”

“I _don’t_ know.”

“But I do. Enough to be certain it wouldn’t be fair to keep you waiting.”

“Is that what you think? That I’ve just been sitting around by myself, waiting for you? Because, let me assure you, Marianne, I haven’t.”

“… Did you say that just to hurt me?”

“Yes.”

“Goodbye, Nick.”

“Look, I’m sorry.”

In some ways, she wished that had been it; that she’d had the gumption to get straight back on a train. But, boldly satisfying as that would have been, it would also have been childish. So, they talked more. And talked to his parents. And had a cry about it all. And argued some details, but agreed on a lot. Then, she and Nick went down the local on the corner and had a drink, and some wasabi peanuts, just to see what it felt like being normal. And both of them agreed, after fifteen measly minutes and a few more tears, that this was no longer it.

“Have you been seeing someone else?” he asked her at one point. “I mean, did you…?”

“No,” she said, grateful at least that she was able to be honest. And then, because honesty was so much more than accuracy, “There might be someone, eventually,” she added. “But I hope you know that isn’t the reason.”

He scoffed into his drink for a moment or two, stared into the middle distance. Swigged. Swallowed. “Yeah,” he said after a while, grudging. “Yes, I know.”

They wandered back to the flat, an unfamiliar distance sprung between them, occupied by new, invisible limbs, nudging one another away. “One day, when it won’t just piss you off,” she said, “I’ll tell you how grateful I am.”

For a moment, he looked offended, but then his face slid into resignation, and then a small smile. A nod. “One day,” he said. Then, he chuckled bitterly. “You can buy me a drink.”

“A drink? I’ll buy you a bottle.”

“Of my choosing?”

She winced theatrically. She knew his taste. “Don’t push it.”

She slept on the sofa. And they discussed the remainder of her things over breakfast: packing them up, taking them to his parents for the time being, so he didn’t have to see them if he didn’t want to. Getting them shipped down later. They found some boxes in the cleaning cupboard, taped them up together, but there really wasn’t much. Her summer clothes. A few books. He almost laughed at how meagre it looked.

“Is that really all that was left?” he asked. And neither of them could say anything for a moment.

The train back was quiet. They had hugged. It had been nice, but no more than that; a pleasant memory of something rather dated, now they looked at it; tired, which had ended without either of them noticing. And there it was; seven years, rounded off by the stopping train out of Waterloo, and a chai tea latte, over-sweet, bought for the heat of the cup.

She took a taxi from the station into the village, riding in a daze, and clambered up the stairs to her flat mechanically, wondering to herself whether she would or wouldn’t cry. She sat on the bed, waiting for it to become clear one way or the other. Made herself an omelette when results were inconclusive. As she ate, standing at the countertop in her knickers and socks, she texted Abby. “ _Nick and I broke up. Both fine. For the best. Please text him if BJ gives you a moment._ ”

Twenty minutes later, Abby replied with, “ _BJ? BJ??? Bloody hell, did NOT think that one through!_ ” Swiftly followed by, “ _For the best, I agree. Drink something depraved. Do it for me. Love you, champ._ ”

Marianne smiled. And then she felt her eyes well. And she wanted to hug someone until it was all better, fierce and warm, uncomplicated and unconditional. She counted it one of the great sadnesses of her life, that she could not remember being held like that. Although she had been. There were photos to prove it. Her baby face being smushed into the cheeks of a woman who looked just like her, whose eyes were the same hazel, whose hair was the same thick, black mane. Her toddler form being held from behind, by fingers that her own hands had grown to imitate, until her father caught sight of them from time to time, and had to turn away.

Dad. She texted him. “ _Nick and I split. I’ve got a job down in Otterbourne. Teaching. All good. Love._ ”

It would be hours before he replied, asking whether she needed any money. And she would be annoyed for five minutes, before remembering that it was only his way of showing concern, and replying that, no, she was, as ever, fine.

She was fine.

She walked back into her bedroom, suddenly exhausted. She thought about texting Sophie. But there was no need. There was really no need. They would be back in the studio together in a couple of days, and Sophie would no doubt swear sympathetically and expressively about it all.

She could text Héloïse.

She could.

But she found that she didn’t want to.

She didn’t want to see her, even. They still had two days off. Usually, she would have been leaping at the chance to spend time in that stern, slightly prickly presence, to tease out the warmth from it, to climb a hill, just to read books together at the top, or hear her talk about something that confused or inspired, or enraged her. But she found she genuinely didn’t want to see her at all. As if she had been swimming against the current for years, and she needed a minute, just a minute at the surface. Even if it meant losing ground, she just needed a moment.

She would go into the studio tomorrow, enjoy the quiet, put on some music. Lesson plan. She would bring in salad in a Tupperware, like she used to in London, and eat it on a drawing donkey, sealed in with the light and the loneliness; the glorious feeling of belonging to herself entirely.

The plan went well, right up until her route to the art block took her via the Classics room. First, she noticed that Héloïse had strung up her curses into a kind of ominous wind chime. They were hanging from the rafter outside her classroom, and made Marianne sad and happy all at once. When the breeze caught the little creatures, the sound they made as the papers stroked one another was like the whisper of locust wings.

Then, as she glanced through the window, intending to pass by, she saw that Héloïse was at her desk and instead smiled, and waved. Finally, the face looked just so expectant, so suddenly alert, that Marianne was opening the door before she knew it, just an inch. Just for a moment.

None of this had been part of the plan.

“Hallowe’en is over, you know,” she commented.

Héloïse’s face was oddly vigilant, as if sniffing the breeze. “I meant to do it earlier,” she said, staring carefully past Marianne to her new decorations. “I think I actually like them.”

“The kids will tear them down, just to see if they can reach,” Marianne observed.

“And then,” Héloïse intoned, turning back to her marking, “the curse will pass to them.”

Marianne chuckled in spite of herself, as she backed out of the room. And her usual, “I’ll see you later,” was out of her mouth before she realised.

So, it came as no surprise when there was a knock on the door at their usual coffee time. Marianne had invited it, after all, however unwittingly. But still, she had no idea what to say. She shied away from the necessary conversation instinctively, not knowing what lay beyond the fence she would have to vault.

Héloïse was hanging back in the doorway. “I’ve put the kettle on,” she murmured, not crossing the boundary, not trespassing.

“Thank you.”

Then, uncertainly, Héloïse said, “Are you okay?”

“Oh.” And all at once the bad sleep and worry of the night before caught up with Marianne, and the words tumbled out. “Did Abby tell you?”

And without her needing to say another word, Héloïse’s face changed. She blushed. Her eyes lowered immediately. She tugged at her fingers, shifted on her feet, rolling to one side.

“No, I…” And Marianne realised that she had given all the answer that was needed anyway, catapulted herself into the very conversation she had not wanted. Héloïse scrambled, still excusing herself, “You’re just back. From London. I didn’t expect you until tomorrow. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to pry.”

“It’s over,” Marianne said softly. “It’s fine. But I’m tired.” And she smiled, or tried to, ended up grimacing as if she were being very brave, when really, she _was_ fine. “I’m just really tired.”

Héloïse nodded, her lips pursed. “I’ll get you a coffee, then,” she said, retreating quietly.

Marianne noticed the mug appear at her elbow a few moments later, without having heard the footsteps.

“Granules in the milk first, right?” the voice asked. “Just like Mummy.”

Marianne whispered, “Thank you.”

“You know where I am,” leaving without needing to be asked, the voice calm and genuine, and just a little sad. “No music?” the question came from the doorway.

Marianne shrugged, propped her head in her fingers. “I don’t know how I want to feel.”

Héloïse. Héloïse gazing. Even as she backed away. “Like yourself?” she suggested.

Marianne worked through lunch without noticing. And once she’d noticed, she was too hungry for the salad. She went and raided the biscuit drawer, and saw Héloïse leaving her classroom. Strange, Marianne thought. She wasn’t wearing a coat, and the weather had turned wild that afternoon. She watched, as Héloïse strode off, twirling the keys around her finger, skipping for the beams, the way she did when there was no one else to see, when life bubbled up to bursting in that tall frame.

 _Tang tang tang_.

All the way down.

She had never looked at Nick, Marianne thought to herself, the way she looked at Héloïse. There hadn’t been time. They had been twenty-one. And hungry. And rushing through to the end. Careless of the moment, because there seem to be so many moments, when you’re twenty-one.

“With _Nick_?” Abby had demanded.

“Please!” Marianne had replied. “It’s casual.”

And in the seven years since, she had never once looked at his departing shoulders, and felt drawn away with them, like a cloak, as if she were fastened about the chest and flying. This realisation hurt more deeply than any cruel words, or small boxes, or empty intimacy. She wanted suddenly to feel everything she had been missing. Yes, she wanted to feel like herself.

She put on some of her music over the speakers, let her mind meander in its variety and strangeness: the returning, mournful hollowness of the xylophone and marimba, the insect exuberance of the wood block, the cockiness of the kit.

“But you don’t actually _like_ this,” Nick had told her when he first listened.

“I do,” she had insisted, over and over. “I do, though.”

“There’s no tune! You find it interesting, maybe. Or inspiring.”

I disappear into it, she wanted to cry out. I become its dark spaces and I climb its walls. I grasp what is recognisable with all the ferocity of loss. He would shake his head, ask that she wear headphones.

When it came to the end, the last triumphant flourish on the drum, she let the track loop back. She listened to it again. And again.

After a while, Héloïse knocked. She was listening, when Marianne glanced round, her hair wet and roughly piled on her head. She looked warm, smelled even from this distance of chlorine.

“Don’t tell me,” she murmured. “Percussion concerto?”

Marianne nodded. “Higdon.”

“Helping?”

“Yes.”

Héloïse hesitated a moment. “It’s just an idea,” she said. “Feel free to say no. They give me the keys to the pool, during the holidays. I keep an eye on the chemicals, that sort of thing.” She smiled shyly. “I could let you in. Leave you to yourself. Lock up when you’ve finished. If you wanted. If that might help.”

“To swim?” Marianne sat up slowly. “I don’t have my costume,” she said automatically.

“Pop home and get it, if you like. I’m not leaving for hours.”

“I’m not sure,” she said deliberately, “that I would feel very safe in there on my own.”

Héloïse shrugged. “I mean,” she smiled, “I just swam, but… I can bring some marking, sit on the side. If that would make you feel safer.” She put her hands back in her pockets. “But, only if you want to.”

“I do,” Marianne said, already getting to her feet. “I do.” Something physical and consuming. Something to envelop her, head to heel. “Give me twenty minutes.”

Héloïse’s smile was glad and wide and genuine. “I’ll see you in there.”

Marianne hadn’t shaved. Not for ages. It had stopped seeming important. Now, clambering into her costume in the changing room, she wondered for the first time in weeks if, after all, it might matter a little. She heard her father’s furious voice.

“They ripped your mother’s out,” he raged. “When she was still a child! They made her feel ugly, all her life, made her hate herself and I won’t see you going the same way! I don’t want you anywhere near it!”

He had caught her shaving her toes. She had been fourteen.

Well, she thought as she flexed her feet over the tiles, maybe he’d had a point all those years ago. He had been right about other things. She wrapped her towel around her waist as a compromise. If she slipped into the water very quickly, maybe at least it wouldn’t be obvious.

She stuck her head through the concrete arch. Héloïse hadn’t put on the blue glaring strip lighting in the faraway roof, just a few of the wall lights, throwing golden fans up the stucco, not quite reaching into the ceiling’s dark arch, and the underwater lamps, making the pool seem otherworldly. She herself sat in a plastic garden chair in the near corner, in a puddle of amber light, one knee crossed at right angles like a desk, a pile of open exercise books on the tiles to one side, and closed to the other. A green biro spun in her fingers, occasionally dipping to make corrections, to write notes. Her feet were bare, Marianne noticed, and she did not look up.

“How long do we have?” Marianne asked, as much to draw attention to her own presence as anything else.

Héloïse smiled, though her eyes did not lift. “As long as you like,” she said. “Until you are wrinkled as a walnut, and preserved for the ages in chlorine.”

“Is it warm?” Marianne had shed the towel in a small heap, sat down on the edge, her long legs dangling. She heard Héloïse laugh a little.

“Warm adjacent.”

Marianne slipped in, finding she enjoyed the slight chill, ducking her head under immediately to get over the worst of it, and finding that there was no worst to be had, only bright silence, chemical and cool. She struck out from the back wall into a lazy breast stroke, flexing her long arms and legs, breaking out of the fist into which she had clenched herself over, how long? Weeks, it had felt like. Months, maybe. When she surfaced, she wondered whether Héloïse was watching her. But a moment’s consideration, and Marianne knew without a shadow of a doubt, that she would not be. Her turn at the pool’s far end confirmed her suspicion. Héloïse sat, in exactly the same pose, methodically working through her marking, eyes carefully engaged elsewhere, on irregular verbs, perhaps, or ever declining nouns.

Marianne might have swum for twenty minutes, perhaps an hour. She had no way of knowing. She swam until she felt that unique, holistic tiredness, and even then she filled her lungs, tipped back, and let herself dawdle on the surface, her ears beneath the water. She watched the water patterns on the ceiling, wondered at how her own body determined and participated in their luminous dance, knowing that those same patterns were looping over the walls and ceiling of her own room, across her sheets, above her bed.

When she glanced up at Héloïse, she saw that the marking was complete, and Héloïse was now reading a book, her legs crossed over the other way. She could not see the title. Emboldened by her tiredness, she swam over, put her elbows on the edge, rested her dripping chin on her forearms.

“How are you not in here all the time?” she asked. “I think I would be.”

The eyes, reflecting the blue of the pool, flicked up, for just a second, the face soft. “Two reasons,” she said. “First; I would wrinkle away into a sea sponge. And sea sponges can’t teach Latin. And second…” There was a pause. “I suppose I just don’t know how lucky I am.”

Marianne dipped her mouth to her skin, watching. “You do, though,” she replied. “You know that it’s magical.”

That was when the head rose, and the hooded eyes observed Marianne in the water with a startling candour. She was playing with the collar of her shirt with her free hand, and her bitten mouth was gentle, but unsmiling.

She said, “‘There was a valley there called Garaphie, dense with pine trees and sharp cypresses, sacred to Diana of the high-girded tunic… a spring of bright clear water murmured into a widening pool, enclosed by grassy banks. Here, the woodland goddess, weary from the chase, would bathe her virgin limbs in the crystal liquid.’”

Marianne waited for a moment, wondering if there would be more. When nothing came, she murmured, “Actaeon?” A silent nod. Another pause. “Well, I promise not to turn you into a stag,” Marianne said softly. “For watching me swim.”

For a moment, it looked as though Héloïse might have been about to say something serious, but her eyes faltered at the last moment. And she closed her book. “You’re not swimming,” she said with finality, stretching out her legs and toes. “You’re floating. Are you done?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And the Higdon Percussion Concerto is now on the Far from the Tree spotify playlist, courtesy of ridiculousmavis:
> 
> [Now That's What I Call Atonal Postmodern Symphonic](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/3fPdiEQLH73sqSmaYFLYEP?si=bE3gE0IJRhid9Lp3ZFXPag)


	12. Meeting by Firelight

Marianne waited patiently outside Miss Blanchard’s office, trying her very, very hardest not to feel as though she were somehow in trouble. But the apprehension in her gut definitely felt like guilt. And the location was suggestive. She leaned on the wood panelled wall, watched the children milling around the football tables, pool tables, table tennis. They were buzzing, all of them, like neon tubes, excited by the decorations, the tree, the fake crackers and cardboard presents, the last day of term.

The whole school had been mysteriously sprouting “cheer” over the preceding weeks. That’s what Héloïse called it, with her devastating precision, as more stars, and tinsel, and isolated snowmen began appearing day by day, tacked to window sills and picture rails and tucked into notice boards. “Oh,” she would say, as she swanned past, hands deep in pockets, judgemental eyes fixed on the distant horizon of twelfth night and the end of such nonsense. “More _cheer_.”

Marianne suspected that the festive culprit might be Sophie. It was just her sort of caper. Something she would have roped her cousins into, no doubt; a tiny crew of foul-mouthed imps, fretting over step ladders and drawing pins, and cans of snow.

“You must tell whoever is responsible,” Miss Blanchard said pointedly at one interval, “absolutely no spraying _of_ anything _with_ anything in the upper school. All listed. We could get in the most terrible pickle.”

“Listed? Really?” Sophie’s face had betrayed nothing. “Interesting fucking factoid, Marianne,” she had said. “What level of listing, do you know? Because that would certainly make a difference, should the school elves want to, I don’t know, build an extension, or add some dormer windows. You know. Holiday stuff.”

Marianne had admitted defeat.

Things seemed to be going well between Sophie and Miles. Well enough that she was actually grumbling about the coming holidays.

“Is he going home?” Marianne asked, surprised.

“He and a mate are going skiing, or some shit,” Sophie replied. “Planned it before they even arrived. Stupid wanker.”

“How dare he!” Marianne exclaimed. “Didn’t he know? That he would meet a Sophie, and be swept off his sturdy, Kiwi feet, and could expect to spend his Christmas… Hold on,” she asked, the tease in full flow. “What _is_ the alternate plan? Introduce him to the parents? Midnight Mass with the aunties, and all the trimmings chez Grandmama?”

Sophie shot her an ardent, angry look. “I don’t know!” she exploded. “Just… closer than the pistes of Italy or whatever bollocks.” She dropped her head into her hands. “I’m just going to miss his bum, okay? Piss off.” She drew an idle pattern with her finger on the table, murmuring sadly, “Bastard doesn’t even ski.”

And Héloïse.

About a week after the children had returned from the exeat, she had burst into the studio, grabbed Marianne by the hand, and dragged her across the quad, despite the rain, despite the curious glances of pupils dashing between their break times.

“Look!” Héloïse had said, with a satisfied smile, indicating the beam by her classroom. A few lonely cotton strands wafted weightlessly.

“Oh, what a shame,” Marianne breathed, genuinely saddened.

But when she checked, Héloïse’s face was shining, her fist on her hip. “All gone!” she declared, like a child, having forced down or successfully hidden their last sprout. “No more curses.”

“Your lovely decoration, though,” Marianne said.

And it was at that point that both of them, at the same instant, realised they were still holding hands. And that this was new. And that letting go would mean something, but that holding on would mean something else.

They were right in the middle of the school day, right in the middle of school property. And the hesitation was nice, but inconclusive.

Héloïse’s eyes were still fired with excitement. Her smile broadened, just slightly, as if proud of something they had made together, of a plan they had shared coming to fruition, and her hand had squeezed Marianne’s. And Marianne had felt a shower of stars exploding somewhere behind her navel, raining fiery atoms into every soft part of her.

That night, judging herself with every snip of the clippers, and every hiss of the file, Marianne had cut her fingernails.

Of course, Sophie had spotted the fruits of her labour the very next day, and her eyebrows had risen so far that they very nearly disappeared into her hairline. She and Marianne stared at one another for a long moment, across the ghostly cacophony of conversations they were certainly not having, until Sophie said, “For netball, right?”

“Absolutely,” Marianne replied.

“Because, I mean, the balls, right? Got to,” Sophie went on, allowing herself to smile, “protect that delicate skin.”

“Sophie.”

“We wouldn’t want anyone to get hurt,” she said, “inadvertently.”

“Sophie, stop it!”

“When play gets…”

Marianne had practically yelled, “I mean it!”

And yet, three weeks on, she was standing outside Miss Blanchard’s office, and she and Héloïse; they had grown… Marianne didn’t think she had the word for what they had become to one another. Inseparable, in some ways, but distant too, as if they were trying to dance the same steps from across a field. Something was always on the point of being done, of being said, of beginning, and then one of them would edge away, and let it be, just for the moment. No rush.

But now, term was ending. The school was fragrant with cloves and orange and buttery pastry. Tonight was the Lumina, the big end of year bonfire festival, with candles and carols, and mulled wine and mince pies. Even the boarder orphans would be gone the next morning, and Marianne was beginning to feel as though whatever she and Héloïse had together, risked sliding away with the cavalcade of black sedans. She found she dreaded coming back in the New Year to find that everything had changed, ticked over with the numbers in the calendar. She wondered if Héloïse might feel it too, as though there were a sudden urgency.

She had texted Marianne that morning. At five. “ _It’s frosty,_ ” the message said, “ _if you want to see the river._ ”

Marianne had replied, after the early morning panic had waned, and annoyance had settled in its place. “ _But. It’s dark. We won’t see anything._ ”

The message pips had undulated for a good two minutes before Héloïse’ reply came through. “ _Ok._ ”

And for some reason, Marianne had lain in her bed, wretchedly awake until her alarm sounded, feeling sick with guilt. The feeling had not left her since.

Miss Blanchard’s door opened and Marianne straightened away from the wall, her heart hammering. She heard a voice she half recognised emerging from the study.

“Thank you for making time, Veronica.”

“You know my door is always open.”

The figure that appeared was Mrs Postlethwaite, Jodie in tow, ushered out into the school building by a frankly harassed-looking Miss Blanchard. All three of them seemed to notice Marianne at the same moment, and their expressions transformed as one.

“Ah, Marianne,” Miss Blanchard said, with a look of relief. “My next meeting, Henrietta, so if you would excuse me…”

“Marianne?” Mrs Postlethwaite repeated, with a look of sudden hawk-eyed interest. She spoke to Jodie, loudly, completely unabashed. “This is the one you were telling me about? The art teacher?”

Jodie nodded dumbly. Her own face had relaxed from sullen into carefully watchful. And if Marianne had felt apprehensive before, she now felt downright nervous, because Henrietta Postlethwaite was examining her.

“I see what you mean,” the woman mused, before deigning to address Marianne directly. “You know,” she said, her voice suddenly clear and commanding, “you could have been a model, if only someone had found you early enough.” A sympathetic smile. “What a pity!” A squeeze to her daughter’s shoulders. “Jodie wants to try. Don’t you, Jodie? But we have to start thinking about it now, if we’re serious.”

Marianne felt her gut shift. Found herself studying the little girl’s face very carefully. Looking for something. Anything. But there was only that same, blank attentiveness. An expression that said, ‘And what are you going to do?’

So, Marianne found suddenly that she was speaking. “My mother was a model.”

Mrs Postlethwaite paused. Miss Blanchard had practically frozen. And Jodie… Jodie remained inscrutable.

Marianne forged on, determined. “She hated it.”

Mrs Postlethwaite said, “Really.”

“Of course she did!” And Marianne was in the swing; could not have stopped if she had tried. “Her parents starved her; the photographers took advantage of her; and her agents stole from her. She couldn’t get out fast enough.”

“Maybe it is just a question,” Mrs Postlethwaite suggested with an academic lightness, “of finding a better agent.”

“Or a better career.” Marianne gave a cold smile. “My father used to say the only way to be safe in the industry was to, first, get a degree in nutrition, then, become a chartered accountant, and finally reach black belt in taekwondo.” She shrugged. “At which point, why on earth would you want to be a model?”

“The fashion?”

Marianne laughed. In the woman's face. But before Mrs Postlethwaite could respond, Miss Blanchard stepped in. Literally, she stepped between them both, putting an arm around Marianne’s shoulder. “How simply fascinating,” she twittered. “I had no idea you really must tell me all about it some time. Henrietta, a pleasure as always. We’ll be seeing you and Carl tonight at the bonfire, of course?”

And suddenly, without Marianne being entirely certain how, the door to the study was shut, and she was behind it with Miss Blanchard, and the world was very quiet. And Miss Blanchard was leaning on the back of her armchair, laughing noiselessly, one hand covering her mouth, her eyes crinkled and shining.

In the relative calm of the study, Marianne realised that her face was hot. She was having to calm herself down from whatever furious high it was that she had crested. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I got a bit carried away.”

“No!” Miss Blanchard gasped. “No, please.” She straightened up, her hands at her waist, her face glowing. Marianne wished she had a camera with her. “Please don’t apologise. I think you may just have achieved more in two minutes than… anyway.” She clapped the hands firmly together. “Anyway! I can see why she thinks so much of you. Please, sit down.”

It was just a check in, marking the end of her first term, to make sure she was comfortable, felt she had settled.

“The music department,” Miss Blanchard said with a teasing smile, “are finding it hard to keep up with your studio playlist.”

“Is it a problem?” Marianne asked. “I like it being something other than school. The music.”

“No. They were actually asking if you take requests. Something that ties in with the syllabus, perhaps?”

Marianne laughed, “I think that might defeat the purpose,” she said.

“I have to agree,” Miss Blanchard replied seriously. “But, I said I would ask.”

There were congratulations. “You are getting some marvellous results. And as I have told you before, you are very good with the children.”

“It doesn’t always feel easy.”

Miss Blanchard shrugged. “Easy is overrated.” She sat up straight in her chair, intoning, “Beware the teacher who wants to be their pupils’ friend! That’s what my predecessor told me. You have qualities that the children respond to. You are trustworthy and interesting.”

Marianne felt her eyes dip. Too many years of hiding in a studio alone. “Am I?”

Again, Miss Blanchard’s eyes twinkled. “So I hear.” She brushed some imaginary fluff off the leg of her trouser and the twinkle dimmed ever so slightly. “All in all, Marianne, the very highest praise I can give… is how sorry we will all be to see you go.” There was a loaded silence. The fire crackled. The clock ticked ostentatiously. “What time is it, Marianne?” Miss Blanchard asked softly. “Can you tell me, please?”

Marianne glanced at the clock, muddled. “Twenty past four,” she said.

“Oh, what a great pity. I am still your manager for another couple of hours. I wonder if you would be so good as to overlook that. For just a few minutes of your time.”

Marianne felt her mouth go very dry. “I don’t know what to say,” she answered honestly. “Is this about Héloïse?”

“I used to think,” Miss Blanchard said, hesitating, “that I would always be able to talk about my daughter, without its being unprofessional. But I fear,” she said with a caged glance at Marianne, “we are getting to the stage where that will become impossible.” Marianne found that she was staring at her own fingernails, as if to mask her sudden discomfort. And then remembered. And blushed furiously. “Don’t worry, please,” Miss Blanchard went on. “I am not here to ask your intentions. But, I see how close you two have become. The direction in which you are both heading. And I hope you will remember how much I admire you, and how fond I am of you personally, when I say that… that I just wish you wouldn’t.”

“Why?” The question had escaped Marianne like a gasp.

“Because you are leaving,” Miss Blanchard said sadly. “Héloïse has experienced terrible loss, Marianne. She has lost far, far more than a parent, more perhaps than even she would be able to explain. She adored her father. She will never forgive him for not being here, and she will never forgive me for not being him. And until you understand that about Héloïse, I’m afraid you haven’t even scratched the surface. Of who she is. Of the damage you could do to her.”

Marianne’s surprise morphed first into humiliation, and then into rigid indignation. “May I go?” she asked, her voice cinder crisp.

“Of course,” Miss Blanchard replied evenly. “Go. Finish up your day, and then change into something warm for the Lumina. It gets very cold when there is no cloud.” She rose to her feet. “Rest assured, I will never mention this matter again.”

Marianne levered herself out of her seat, being careful to emphasise her height as she did so, to draw attention to her dignity. But she saw only sadness, and gentleness in Miss Blanchard’s eyes. And she did not know what to do. Or how to be angry in the face of such deep regret. “How do you get on with the Kafka?” the woman asked. Her voice was remarkably light, given the circumstances, as she made her way to the door.

“Not at all,” Marianne answered.

“Well, perhaps it is an acquired taste,” Miss Blanchard commented. “My husband always said, for satire to be funny, the reader must first be furious. If you are done with it, I…?”

“I am not.”

A small, sad smile. Another thing, perhaps, from which she wanted to protect Héloïse: the big scary book; the threat of affection. There was so much that Marianne did not, could not understand, about the love of mothers. She wished, suddenly, for hands that looked like her own, offering fierce, irrational protection.

“You know, when I first came in,” Marianne said, trying to keep the emotion from her voice as she made to leave, “and you said that you could see why she thought so much of me? You sounded so pleased.”

Miss Blanchard frowned for a moment, and for one brief instant, her face resembled her daughter’s. “Oh, I see your confusion,” she replied. “In that instance, I was talking about Jodie.”

The Lumina was a mystical thing. The building detritus of the school year, wooden pallets, boxes, broken wood from the DT shop, had been piled into a heap in the middle of the bottom field, a stack that towered at least ten feet tall. It was set alight as soon as the evening got dark enough, slowly maturing into a blaze that ripped the night open, so loud, it could be heard from every corner of the grounds, so hot, you could feel your eyeballs tighten as you stared. The choir sang unaccompanied carols in front of the cricket pavilion, and every child and every adult held a candle in a paper holder, which they bore with them throughout the night.

“You cannot put it down,” Sophie had told her seriously. “And it cannot go out until the final prayer, or the winter witches get you.”

“The what?”

“And forget the paper thing,” Sophie said, ignoring her. “The easiest way is to stick it to your palm with the melted wax. It hurts at first, but it’s cool as hell when it drips down between your fingers and makes all the stalactites.”

“How do you eat anything?” Marianne had asked.

“Down in one,” Sophie had answered, looking at her as though she were an idiot. “Five at a time. Héloïse will show you.”

But Marianne had not seen Héloïse all day. Had not heard from her since the pre-dawn text.

“ _Where will you be?_ ” Marianne had messaged as they all headed for the field. She had needed something from home. She expected that Héloïse would arrive before her.

But there had been no reply.

Marianne had not seen her at the mulled wine stall, nor with the sensibly anoraked crowd around the mince pies. And now, in the darkness of the low field, which the bonfire only served to deepen, Marianne could barely tell any of the dim, orange-bathed shadows apart. They were transfigured by gloom and fire into proto-people, all limbs and manic laughter around the flames, candles racing disembodied in the night, by turns carolling and whooping like hounds. The children sang with the parish choir, the Matin Responsory drifting over the field, swallowed in fire.

“I look from afar: And lo, I see the power of God coming, and a cloud covering the whole earth.”

Marianne stood alone. She would come, she thought. Of course she would come. She had been talking for weeks about how the festival had been a huge part of her whole life; how it was pagan-seared into her gut memory, until the Lumina did not smell of bonfire, but all bonfires smelled of the Lumina.

After a while, though, as the candle wax dripped longer and longer between her fingers, Marianne began to wonder.

With her candle as the only light source, she slipped back from the crowd and the carols and made her solitary way to the chapel gardens, a single flame, weaving away into the night.

Héloïse was in the greenhouse. She had mulled wine in a canteen mug, clasped in her wide hands. She must have stolen it before they even took the urns out to the tables, smuggled it away under her jacket to be alone. A candle lay beside her on the table, white-wicked and pristine. Marianne, careful of her own light, opened the door without knocking.

Héloïse looked up, her darkened eyes wincing at the little flame cradled in Marianne’s palm. She did not seem surprised, or upset. Just tired.

Marianne nodded to the abandoned candle. “Winter witches?” she asked.

Héloïse’s smile was small. “Only counts from when you light it,” she said. She drank some mulled wine, frowning at the toe of her boot. “Mummy said she would speak to you.”

“She did.”

“She ruins everything.” The voice was bleak. Empty, almost. “She can’t even help it. It’s how she is.”

“And how is that?” Marianne asked.

But Héloïse’s face sank into a frown. “Not important.”

“I’m sorry about this morning,” Marianne said trying to rouse her from the gloom.

“No, it was stupid,” Héloïse muttered. “I just wanted to speak to you. Without Sophie.”

“Well, Sophie isn’t here, now,” Marianne said softly. “Or, we could go to the bonfire. Speak there.”

Héloïse looked up. “Is it too late, though?” she asked, her voice catching.

Marianne laughed, but she wasn’t sure at what. The earnestness, perhaps. The genuine worry. “Yes,” she whispered. “If we never go.”

The eyes did not waver; the same crippling uncertainty etched into every feature. Then suddenly, she drained her wine, picked up her candle, stood away from the table. “May I?” she asked.

Marianne held out the little flame, with its lacy skirt of wax overflowing her hand, and Héloïse lit her candle from it. But, even with the wick alight, she kept the wax above the flame for a long moment, until it slid and wept, glossy in the heat, then held the dripping wax above her own hand, made a molten puddle between the heart and life lines, wincing as the first pale splashes fell. She held her candle’s base in Marianne’s flame, until that too shone like butter, and worked it soft into her waiting palm until the cold air set it firmly in place. Her fingers cradled carefully, like the bars of a living cage, circling the young light.

And she had done this every year of her life, Marianne considered, as much a part of her as a birthday. Except, maybe more vivid. Because birthdays changed as you did, but this was constant.

Héloïse smiled at her at last, her candle casting her face in ivory and gold. “Shall we go?”

They made their way back to the bonfire. The festival seemed to be winding down a little. The fire still burned bright and furious, blowing sparks into the sky like shrapnel from a blunderbuss. But the first leavers were pulling away out of the carpark. Scattered candles seemed to imply they had missed the carols and prayers. And the trestles were looking more picked over than inviting. There were still plenty of people, milling about in steaming groups, but they had the air of wedding guests after the couple have left; on the cusp of making the party their own, for better or worse.

“Do you want to stay?” Marianne asked. Héloïse did not break her stride.

“It’s my favourite time.”

She led them around the bonfire to the far side, where only the children strayed in little packs, guarding their shrunken candles from the wind, as if still uncertain whether prayer could be trusted to guard against ancient magic.

Marianne and Héloïse did not speak. They only stood in front of the flames, feeling the heat in the roots of their eyelashes, the ash in the pores of their skin. After a while, Marianne pulled something from her pocket, held it out so Héloïse could see; the book of Kafka. The flames already seemed to lick the cover, dancing on the shine of the paper.

“Do you want to do it?” Marianne asked.

“I can’t,” Héloïse replied.

Marianne nodded. And then, after a pause. “Do you want me to?” she asked.

There was no hesitation. “Yes.”

She threw the book into the bonfire. Héloïse did not even watch its flight, did not see its fall. Her eyes held Marianne’s. And after a moment, she smiled, unaffected, beautiful, relieved.

They walked away from the fire, into the darkness of the high bank, the small pavilion, their candles alight on their hands.

“I never wanted to read those words again,” Héloïse murmured. “My father’s note.”

“‘To Grete.’?”

“He was ill. I know. But it was still cruel. I never wanted her to see it.”

“Of course.”

“She never wanted that. She never wanted him…”

Marianne had already asked the question, before she wondered whether it was wise. “You think that he meant it for her?”

They were above the bank, behind the trees, but even from here they could hear the bonfire, smell it on the wind, in one another’s clothes and hair. Héloïse was breathing heavily, deep and strong. They both were. It was the hill, Marianne thought. Or the worry of shielding the candles. They held them between their two bodies out of the wind, forming a double wall.

“He used to say we were like peas,” Héloïse murmured. “And my whole life, my proudest thought was that I could be a bit like him. But, towards the end, he stopped recognising himself in me.” Her eyes dropped, doused by shame. “Like something in the mirror had cracked.” Their fingers, bearing the candles, were so close together, that stray flecks of wax from one fizzed against the other’s flame. “He started saying, I was just like her.” Héloïse whispered. And her eyes rose, eager, and terrified. “That I was cold.”

Marianne’s answer was a breath, easy and inevitable, impossible to hold for ever, so why try, even for an instant? She murmured back, “You’re not cold.”

As if it were scripted, as if it were part of the festival itself, they bent their heads in unison, and blew out the candles keeping them apart. And as their mouths rose in the immediate darkness that followed, they met. Kissed. Soft at first. Warm. Slow. Smelling of cold air and woodsmoke. The world reduced to the hiss of their breath where their noses pressed, the crinkle of their jackets as they edged nearer, feeling for boundaries, encountering none. And then, with the smallest shift in their bodies, it was open, wet, tasting of spiced wine and citrus. They reached for one another, wax splintering and scattering as their palms flexed and grasped. The kiss had a rhythm to it, and a sound of its own; a murmur behind it, like the groan of a pipe when the pressure is finally released, and neither of them could have said for certain, whose voice, whose chest or throat. Marianne felt the wax, still warm from Héloïse’s hand, smear over her waist.

Someone shouted from across the field. A summoning. The name of a child, perhaps. Nothing to do with them. But it was enough to lever them apart from one another, to hold whatever this was at arm’s length for just a moment. Breathe. Feel the air, very cold against their open mouths. Listen to their bodies, the aching moan of something cut off. Not enough, they seemed to howl. A beginning only. Not nearly enough.

Marianne was the one to ask, hardly able to look. “Do you want to come home with me?”

Héloïse nodded, furious as a shiver. “Yes,” she whispered. “Yes. Now.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For extra bonfire ambience, why not try the Far from the Tree spotify playlist, courtesy of ridiculousmavis? We have added the Palestrina for you:
> 
> [Now That's What I Call Atonal Postmodern Symphonic](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/3fPdiEQLH73sqSmaYFLYEP?si=bE3gE0IJRhid9Lp3ZFXPag)


	13. A Beginning

The stairs up seemed very steep, very cramped. They kept bumping into one another, as if the walls themselves were nudging them together, wanting to keep them close.

Too breathless for speaking, they had marked their trail back from the school with long strides and flaked candle wax, picked from nervous fingers.

Now, the door had closed on them both. The little hallway was dark. And every inch of the world that mattered was panting, wide-eyed, smelling of wood smoke and the cold. Marianne reached first for the zip of Héloïse’s jacket. Pulled it down in one long tug, like a sigh, of limbs, of clothing.

Enough of this.

She pushed the rigid fabric from broad shoulders, as if shucking a shell, let it clatter to the floor, and for a heady instant, felt the thrum of vulnerable warmth beneath. Gloriously animal. Hair. Sweat. The beat of blood.

Héloïse was fumbling at Marianne’s zip, her fingers stuttering. When she found it, grasped it, wrenched it down in three, angular gasps, her shoulder was leaping in its socket. Marianne felt every spark of her nervousness. Her own arms free, she laid her hands gently on Héloïse’s biceps, warming, watching the chest between them tremble in its determined rise and fall.

She whispered, “Are you scared?”

“Yes.”

She raised her eyes. “Have you been scared all this time?”

“Yes.”

Marianne smiled, amazed. Touched the full lips with her fingertips, felt the warm, wet breath behind them. “Me too.”

They kissed down the corridor, shedding awkward, heavy clothing. Boots. Socks. Hoodies. Finding one another by the mouth each time and drawing and pressing their way crabwise towards the room, the bed, the promise of more. Marianne felt a questing hand push under her top, hissed, at a sudden unexpected texture. Her stomach jumped against it and she clutched at the exploring wrist, drew out the palm, held it in the light.

Wax. Wax all over, needles and tear drops.

“Do you think we should…” she whispered, a laugh building in her throat.

Héloïse snorted, “… wash our hands?”

The bathroom was too small for them, and they stood at the basin, jammed together, shoulders pressing. Smiling, now shy, now bold, recklessly kissing, pushing warm wet hands up into the soft hair at the nape of the neck, cupping faces like goblets, drawn lip to lip, to drink one another down. Their hips arched for each other, like mirrors dancing, each limb, each organ searching kitten-blind for its opposite.

Marianne pulled Héloïse’s shirt off, dropped it on the bathmat. “I want to see your arms,” she murmured. And found there was no bra beneath.

She must have known already. Her fingers must have. She had mapped every surface. But she hesitated for a moment, staring, confounded, her hands stilled on the warm hips.

Héloïse breathed, her chest swelling patiently, soft and very beautiful. Her voice emerged low, curious.

“Have you done this before?”

Marianne slowly shook her head. “Never with a woman.” She swallowed. Stroked upwards, just a little above the waist, the ribs. Just to see. Heard the strong intake of breath. Lifted cautious eyes. “Have you?”

Héloïse’s gaze was hooded, lips parted, borne very still between Marianne’s palms, as if balanced on the edge of a great height. “It’s been a while.”

Marianne laughed, kneaded gently, reassuring. “I don’t think it will have changed,” she whispered.

She expected Héloïse to chuckle in reply, but her expression remained completely static, her glittering eyes, open mouth, fixed, like an image petrified in silver. She murmured, trembling, “Everything feels different with you.”

And Marianne drew close, kissed her, made space for her suddenly eager hands, softly assenting as they sought to strip her bare, to guide her gently out into the street-lit bedroom, to lay her on the mattress.

“May I… Do you want?”

Lifting her hips. “Yes. Yes.” Laughing as the trousers would not quite unroll; at the sudden shock of being laid open; at the cold.

And Héloïse crawled up the length of her body, warm, yielding, solid, braced over her, kissed her slowly. Stroking her hair back from her brow, her ears. Kissing her again. She settled at Marianne’s side on one elbow, her chin low, her eyes huge.

“Are you sure?” she whispered. “Is this, am I, what you want?”

In reply, Marianne reached for her, surged up to meet her, fitted mouths, tugged back to fit legs, bodies. “I want you to touch me,” she breathed, never so sure of anything in all her life.

She was loud. Jesus. She had never been so loud. Thank Christ she had no neighbours. She had not even been aware, until she registered Héloïse shushing her, moaning in sympathy, laughing, that the noises had even been hers. But sound had surged out of her, out of her hollow mouth, open, pressed against Héloïse’s breast in something older than a kiss. She lay. Dazed. Coming down. Vibrating, still. Gripped a little tight without knowing why. Until she realised she was clutching Héloïse’s wrist, holding her in place, unwilling to let the feeling go. She was cradled, lying on Héloïse’s arm, blinking into Héloïse’s eyes, waiting for the breath to return to her, gazing up into an expression of utter shock. Of wonder.

Héloïse’s voice, when it came, was a shuddering whisper. “Did I do that?”

Marianne felt herself slacken. Gasped a little as she guided the hand away, raised it to her mouth. Kissed. Nuzzled. “We did that,” she said. And as she continued to fill her eyes with Héloïse, her body informed her that, despite everything, she was not tired at all. Not in the least. “Now,” she smiled, rising, rolling, “let’s do the same for you.”

Marianne leaned against the kitchen sink, and refilled her glass. She was cold. Of course she was cold. It was December and she was naked. Every inch of her body was covered with gooseflesh, and every tired, shivering muscle longed to be laid flat and warm, covered and held. But her mind needed this cold moment, to be alone in the dark.

It had been good. And easy. And instinctive. And sweet. And she wanted more. In fact, she suspected this might be all she would ever want, until doomsday rolled around and rang the bell, told them it was time to drink up, ladies, and head home.

Héloïse; brilliant, gentle, indignant. She would take a lifetime. And they didn’t have that long. Not unless something changed. And change, however welcome, always demanded sacrifice.

Héloïse had lost so much already. Which meant the burden would be Marianne’s. To choose or reject. So, here she was, on their first night, cold, naked, and already afraid of herself.

It was too soon, she thought, angry with her own conscience. Too soon for any of this.

She filled a second glass, and returned to the bedroom.

Héloïse was looking at the fitted sheet, curled around the pattern they had made together on the fabric, white and dark, marking where their bodies had pressed. She was tracing it with her finger.

Marianne found that she was blushing as she watched, had to sip at her water, groaned from the doorway. But when Héloïse looked up, her face was full of easy joy.

“It’s like a map,” she said, her eyes playful and soft. “Of where Marianne was happy.”

Marianne felt herself sigh. Strode over to the bed. “You contributed,” she replied. “Here. Drink, please.”

Héloïse propped herself up, accepted the glass obediently, began knocking it back. Marianne watched the working of her throat, felt herself soften anew, decided she wanted to better appreciate. She reached over to the far side of the bed and flicked a switch.

Héloïse gulped down the last of her water with a frown. “Fairy lights?” she demanded.

Marianne lay back, smirking. “I like fairy lights,” she replied. “They suit every mood. Now come here.” She patted the bed next to her. “I want to see something.”

Héloïse shrank away just a little, already knowing. Hesitating. “Do you?”

Marianne nodded. “Unless you’re not ready. And it’s fine. If you’re not.”

But Héloïse put the glass down beside the bed, giving Marianne a small preview of what she knew she wanted, and then laid down on her front, her arms under her cheek, gazing up at Marianne with shy, trusting eyes.

Marianne had felt it before she had seen it; a difference in the texture of the skin, something she could not decipher properly in the heated maelstrom of other sensations. But she had suspected. And she stroked over it now with careful fingers, as they lay together; a beautiful tattoo, nestled between Héloïse’s shoulder blades over her spine. An apple.

“It’s because I’m a teacher,” Héloïse quipped. But it did little to help. Marianne’s eyes were already brimming.

“Oh, Héloïse,” was all she managed. And she laid down on her side so that their faces were close, and her cheek was on her arm, extended out around both their heads, and she stroked on. Waiting.

“You know,” Héloïse went on, her voice very small, “you’re one of only two people in the world, who would understand. And the other one doesn’t even know it’s there.”

“Why did you get it?” Marianne asked.

“Back then,” Héloïse murmured, “part of me needed it all to be visible. Needed there to be proof.” She nuzzled her head into the pillow a little deeper, relaxing into Marianne’s gentle attention. “I forget about it sometimes. But, when someone might see, and ask about it, I remember. And, I haven’t ever been ready. Before.”

She didn’t need to say the rest. Because here they were. Marianne raised herself slowly, leaned over the little design, kissed it once, and laid herself back down. Héloïse’s nose was wet, but she was smiling. “Are you sleepy?” Marianne asked her. The head shook against the pillow, eyes peeping up, blonde hair messy.

“Are you?”

“Only a little.”

“Sleep, if you want. I don’t mind.”

“Really?”

“I think I’d like it.”

Marianne laughed. “Why?”

Héloïse rolled just slightly on her side, smiled, her eyes arcing. “It’s something I haven’t ever seen you do.”

When Marianne woke, the fairy lights were still on. The world beyond the blinds was still dark, but this late in the year, that meant nothing. It could have been any time, or none. She had no memory of drawing up the covers, but the duvet was tucked about her shoulders. And as she shifted on the pillows, encouraging the blood back into her outstretched arm, Marianne became aware that, in the nook under her chin, Héloïse slept, cuddled up like a puppy, like a baby asleep on someone’s chest.

Everyone looks young when they sleep, she told herself. The face relaxes, the tense muscles give up their worry into the night. She wanted to stroke the mussy blonde locks. She wanted to run her fingers through, massage behind the neat ears, the base of the skull. But she looked so peaceful. Marianne barely wanted to breathe. But she needed to pee, and she was lying next to the wall. She tried her hardest to shuffle down the bed without waking Héloïse, but when she looked up, she saw the shine of two eyes, the slightly raised head peeking above the duvet, the cheeks rise in a smile she could not see.

“You’re not wearing any clothes,” a scratchy voice observed happily.

Marianne laughed. “Neither are you under there. I remember.”

A hum of amused agreement. “Come back. We should make the most of it.”

“Need to wee.” She heard a grumble of disappointment and a stretch, muffled by covers, as she headed for the bathroom. “Do you want some tea?”

“Will you need to put clothes on?”

“No.”

“Then, yes, please.”

That day was heaven. There was a tiny part of Marianne that wished for a splinter, a divot in how easy, how simple everything was. How they laughed together about nothing as comfortably lying in bed as they had done sitting on a hillside. How sex came to them as naturally and readily as silence. How good it was. If only there had been just a wrinkle, she thought, a moment’s disagreement or a hair’s breadth of misalignment between them. But there was nothing. Even when they finally decided that it was time for showers and clothes, and leaving the flat, if only because they were both ravenous and their muscles needed to do something else, anything else, the decision was immediate and mutual. And its execution was warm, and affectionate, and close. And as they walked down to Benny’s in a daze of grey daylight, both of them laughing at their wobbly legs and reddened mouths, Marianne found herself thinking at odd moments, “Seven years. Seven years.” And sadly wishing a part of herself away.

“Do you have to go?” Héloïse asked her.

They were eating chips, sitting on the tomb, nestled together, their breaths coiling, enjoying the frosty nip at noses and ears.

“Dad’s expecting me,” Marianne replied. “And I’m not sure your mother…”

Héloïse stopped her mouth with a chip. “She’ll come round,” she said softly. “She just… thinks she can fix everything.”

Marianne chewed happily. “What needs fixing?” she asked the universe.

Héloïse chuckled. “Well, exactly.”

“You’re perfect!”

Héloïse looked at her, quietly, thoughtfully, a smile tugging at her mouth that she didn’t seem to know what to do with. “Stay,” she whispered.

“No,” Marianne replied with a smug grin, leaning over for a kiss. “Miss me like crazy, and learn to text like a normal person.”

“I can’t say the things I want to in a text,” Héloïse answered, smirking away.

Marianne smiled. “Say them now.”

Héloïse hesitated, her bluff well and truly called. “Have some respect for the dead,” she murmured, blushing.

“I do,” Marianne replied. “I hope that every single one of them was once as happy as we are right now.” She ate a chip. Contemplated the sad unfairness of the world, and adjusted. “Or if they weren’t, then that they are.”

Héloïse smiled at her again. “You believe in it today?” she asked, and there was no need to clarify.

Marianne nodded. “Trying to.”

“Can I change the sheets?” Héloïse asked later. “They still smell of bonfire and we don’t any more.”

“Can’t have that!” Marianne called from the kitchen. She had put on a percolator of coffee, and was wary of going into the bedroom, in case Matters Developed and the rubber seal scorched. “We can have new ones. Make them smell of chips instead.”

She came through a minute or so later, with two mugs, fully expecting to have to direct, to offer to help, and finally to do herself. But everything was already neat and clean, and Héloïse was sitting on the freshly made bed in her bare feet, flipping through a book of photography from one of the piles.

She accepted the coffee gratefully, made room for Marianne to wriggle in next to her. They sipped quietly for a while, heads inclined towards one another, looking wryly and fondly at one another’s toes. Such a silly, simple thing, yet it absorbed them for long, contented minutes.

“How long does this last?” Marianne wondered aloud.

Héloïse glanced over at her. “Toes being funny?” she asked, before checking back at the digits in question and flexing her own for consideration. “Forever, I hope.” She sipped at her coffee, looked back towards Marianne. Kept looking. “Can we listen to the rest of it now?” she asked, her voice low.

Marianne looked back. There was something, even in the reserve of Héloïse’s expressions, that she was beginning to be able to read. She downed her coffee, and reached for her laptop on the little desk. She pulled up the Vaughan Williams, and then, carefully, put the computer on the floor, tucked out of harm’s way. She sat back against the pillows, her arms behind her head, her face carefully neutral.

And she watched Héloïse listening, watched her expression for a few minutes of surging strings, and rippling harps, watched the flick of eyes, the twitch of the mouth. She saw the sudden decision before it was made, and was ready.

Héloïse had to reach over her to put the coffee cup down. And she kissed Marianne as she did so, her mouth hot, appealing.

Marianne laughed, nudged their noses together. “You have a Vaughan Williams kink?” she whispered.

“Shush.” Héloïse murmuring. “I have a _you_ kink.” Her hand already working at the zip of Marianne’s trousers, gentle, pulling the waistband down, just a little, just enough to make room for her hand, for the angle of her wrist. She was smiling. “Is this comfortable?”

And Marianne kissed back her back, and told her yes. And that particular piece would never be the same.

Christmas that year was strange for so many reasons: Marianne’s first without Nick for half a decade; her first with her father for even longer. He collected her from the station in his beaten up Jaguar, took one look at her and said, “Well, you’re in a good mood,” before driving the twenty minutes back to the house in total silence.

The car, as with so much of her father’s life, would have been worth a lot of money, if only he had given a shit about money.

“Why, Dad?” she had asked him once. “It’s so inefficient. You could sell it and buy something much cheaper to run.”

“Some of these cunts won’t even look at you, unless you turn up to shoots in something flash,” he replied.

Marianne conceded that this was probably true, without mentioning that, at this stage in his career, they would be stupid not to look. Her father had quite the reputation. Not a big name. But a solid one. And a curmudgeonly persona, of which, Marianne suspected, he was quietly proud. There was a generation of models in London, he used to boast, that had nicknamed him “The Careers Advisor.”

“Other people will make choices for you that close doors,” he had told them. “You tell them to stick it, right? At your age, you want as many doors open as possible. You just take a good hard look at the people telling you that you’ve got to sacrifice everything to be any good at modelling. And you think. You just think: who does it benefit, if this is my only option? Right? Because it’s never going to be you, ladies. It’s never going to be you.”

She lifted her bag out of the car on her own. It wasn’t an independence thing. Her father had an awful back, and she was half a head taller than him in any case. He was squinting at her from the front door of his latest suburban semi-detached pad, leaning on the pebbledash pillar. “You seeing someone?” he asked.

“Yes,” she said.

He nodded, wiped his moustache, fished in his jacket for his keys. “Good for you.”

“I didn’t mind him,” he said. They were drinking beers on the back doorstep, Christmas Eve, looking out over the bomb site of a garden while her father smoked. “Nick, I mean. I know you both thought…”

“Dad,” Marianne interrupted, “it’s okay. It’s properly over.”

“It was just his folks that I…”

“Please, Dad. Stop.” She pulled at the beer, reached for another cocktail sausage from the plate. “Are _you_ seeing anyone?” she asked.

He dragged on his cigarette. “Met a nice lady in Milan,” he said. “Very nice. Good sense of humour. Clever as fuck.” He shrugged. “She was just… I mean she was just a little bit…”

“Married,” Marianne finished for him.

“Yeah.” He shrugged again. “Yeah, she was. We had fun, though.”

Marianne rolled her eyes. He had offered her a chair, but she declined. They were rusty as anything, and the seat cushions looked as though they had been outside since 1978. “When are you going to let yourself fall for someone single, Dad?” she asked. “Aren’t you tired of it all being complicated?”

He held out the cigarette, offering. “Aren’t you?” he countered.

“It’s not anymore,” she declared, too smug and missing Héloïse too much to pretend.

Héloïse had texted every day, regular as clockwork. Always the same message. “ _Come back, please._ ”

“Oh, yeah!” he said, pretending to have forgotten. “Well, go on, then. Tell me. You’re clearly busting.”

Marianne smiled, stroked the back of her neck. “It’s very new,” she said.

“Yes, I would bloody hope,” he replied. He had always been of the ‘Learn-well-from-my-mistakes’ school of parenting.

Marianne took the plunge. “She teaches classics,” she said. She waited for a moment, watching her father pull on the smoke, the tension above his eyebrows.

“Classics, eh?” he said at last. “Fancy that. Just fancy.” He shot her an interested glance. “Brainy?”

Marianne laughed. “Very.”

“See that,” he looked off into the middle distance, “that’s good. You always needed that I think. And that Nick fella, he was never at your speed. He could never keep up.”

“Dad.”

“No, but he couldn’t. And this woman, she sounds…” He shrugged. “I mean… You look well on it, don’t you?”

Marianne sat up a little. Compliments from her father were rare. Dangerous things. Too much like work. “Do I?” she asked.

“Yeah.” He sniffed. “You look very well on it.” Stubbed out the last of the cigarette on the patio. “Just like your mother.” He stood abruptly, blowing breath clouds into the cold air and rubbing his hands. “Good. Calls for another round, I think. Beer?”

“Please.”

“There’s a pack of samosas if you fancy, too,” he shouted over his shoulder. “The spicy fuckers. Unless you want to save them for tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow? Father!” Marianne called back in outrage. “It’s Christmas!” Her phone pinged before she caught his reply.

A message from Héloïse.

“ _Vaughan Williams on the radio,_ ” it said. “ _Compromised._ ”

Marianne felt her cheeks warm, laughed. “ _Be strong,_ ” she typed back. “ _One more week._ ”

There was a short pause. “ _Mummy suspicious._ ”

“ _Change station._ ”

“ _Not helpful._ ”

Marianne gazed at the screen. She would call her, from the narrow bed upstairs, enjoy her voice, tease her discomfort, play with her. “I imagine you,” she would murmur. “I imagine your hands. I imagine you all the time.”

But, God, she also _missed_ her. Fiercely. She had not known before, what it was, or even that it was possible, to miss someone with joy. She typed. “ _Why are your toes so far away?_ ”

There was a pause of a few moments before the reply came back. “ _Because tall,_ ” it said. Marianne laughed, but before she could answer, she saw that another message was being composed. And she waited. And waited. Her father would return in a moment. Whatever Héloïse was plotting, she hoped it wasn’t too suggestive. She could never hide anything from him. The message pinged in, just as she heard him leave the kitchen. She opened it hurriedly.

“ _Come back. Please,_ ” it read. “ _You are the map of where I was happy._ ”

“You all right?” her father asked, handing her the cold bottle, settling himself back on the porch.

Marianne wiped her eyes hurriedly. “Yes. Thank you.”

Her father smiled at her. “This is nice, isn’t it?” He swigged at his drink, bounced his knees. “You. Me.” He nudged her hip with his foot. “She’d be pleased.”

Marianne nodded, swigged her beer. “I think so.” And snuck a look down at the screen of her phone, where the message still glowed.

“ _Come back._ ”


	14. The Cave

Midnight rolled around. But to be honest, neither of them was paying much attention.

It was past one in the morning before they even thought about it. And by then, it was too late to do much more than kiss one another, and they had been doing plenty of that in any case.

Héloïse lay on her side, stroking Marianne’s flank, scooping the curve between her ribs and her hip over and over, like the softest pendulum in existence. “Brand new year,” she said.

Héloïse’s voice crinkled at the edges when she was lying down, as if it were another sheet, rumpled and hitched. Marianne discovered sleepily that she loved the sound, all mussed, lived in.

Maybe that had been the first glimmer of knowing.

“Off to a good start,” she smiled.

“Always room for improvement,” Héloïse smirked.

“I don’t see how,” Marianne whispered back.

Someone from the village over was still setting off fireworks, regular as clockwork, like the tolling of a bell, as if the night had a heartbeat.

“I told Dad I’d text,” Marianne murmured, not moving. “Bad daughter. Naughty bad daughter.”

“The networks always jam up at midnight,” said Héloïse. “Text him now. He won’t know.”

“I’ll do it in the morning.”

“It’s fine.”

Marianne kissed her. “I want you,” she kissed. “I want you all to myself. And I want to be all yours. Just for now.”

Héloïse hummed happily, tugged her closer. “And how long is now, again?”

“Unfathomably long,” Marianne murmured.

“And also, infinitely brief,” came the riposte, “by the same argument.”

Marianne grumbled. “You’re annoying.”

“Because right.” Héloïse was smiling. “How about a compromise?”

“Never!” Marianne curled, arching her torso away, contentedly fuming, listening to the patient sound of Héloïse’s hand on her skin. “When is inset day again?” she asked.

“In a week.”

Marianne snuggled lower. “Is a week too long to ask?”

“To be a person’s everything?” Héloïse enquired, a chuckle in her throat. “I think traditionally that would be considered the bare minimum.”

“You’re teasing,” Marianne replied. “You think I’m being selfish.”

“No,” Héloïse countered. And her eyes were contented and hungry all at once. “I want to be selfish too.”

“Really?”

“Please.”

Marianne let her finger trail from the point of Héloïse’s shoulder, down over the pretty muscle to her elbow, watched the pale hairs rise to meet her touch, her warmth, her attention. How strange, she thought, that these deepest, most basic responses of the body are the ones over which a person has no control. Even Héloïse, strong, intelligent, disciplined Héloïse, had no control at all over the rise of her own hair, the dilation of her pupils, the twitch of her joints or the flooding of her mouth. Or of other places.

Perhaps, Marianne wondered, this lack of control is the means by which the body best communicates. “Look!” it cries out, helplessly. “Look at what you do to me.”

“Look at you,” Marianne whispered.

“I can’t,” Héloïse replied, her eyes roving over the path of her own hand. “I’m busy.”

Marianne smiled. “A week,” she said. “And what then?”

“Ah, I think I can help you there,” Héloïse said, reaching down and drawing the duvet up to cover their legs, just to the top of the thighs, so as not to interfere. “Then, we have this little thing coming up called ‘school’.”

Marianne groaned. “You’re such a twat.”

“I’m trying to be helpful!”

“But what about in school?” Marianne asked, her eyes growing serious.

Héloïse’s hand paused just slightly on its rolling journey. “What about it?”

“What are we allowed to… I don’t know. To do? Can we hold hands?”

Héloïse winced uncomfortably. “We do hold hands,” she mumbled.

“We have held hands once in school.”

“That’s once more than I’ve held hands with Sophie.”

“And it was an accident,” Marianne added pointedly.

“No, it wasn’t.”

Marianne felt herself flush. “Wasn’t it?” A shy shake of the head. A small smile into the pillows. And Marianne melted, teasing the pale hair back from the eyelashes, tucking behind the ear, letting her hand linger over the strong cheekbone.

“Every moment I’m not touching you feels like time wasted.”

“We’re so new,” Héloïse whispered, turning her face into the warm palm. “It will get easier.”

“I don’t want it to get easier,” Marianne insisted, her voice cracking. “I want to be hungry for you. Only, I won’t know how to look at you.”

Héloïse blinked slowly, kissed the hand where it covered her mouth. “The way you have been, please.”

The week passed, under the good fortune of bad weather. They sheltered together in nests of duvets, and dressing gowns, and laptops and tea, as the icy rain outside hammered on the windows and blotted out the hills. They worked like students, lolling in their underwear, living on toast and takeaway. Marianne realised, halfway through the Thursday, that she had been typing for an hour one handed, while the other hand tangled in Héloïse’s hair where she sat on the floor. And that was a day when she believed.

“We’ll be okay,” Héloïse murmured to her at the first inset day coffee break. They were standing at the far end of the staff room, away from the cloaking chatter of their colleagues, their heads inclined together, engaged in the happy agony of not touching. “It’s just a few hours of the day. Do you want to have dinner?”

“Would you stay over?” Marianne asked.

Héloïse laughed softly. “I need to sleep. And so do you.”

Marianne shifted, trying to dispel the frustrated surge in her gut, like the steady, impatient headbutt of a stubborn ram. “We can do some of that as well,” she mumbled.

“Marianne!” It was Miss Blanchard’s voice, from the doorway of her study. “May I have a moment?” Her voice was very clear and precise. As if she had been practising.

Marianne glanced towards Héloïse, wondering whether there would a peck on the cheek, a touch of hands. Or anything at all. Instead, there was a slow lowering of lashes. A murmured, “Bye.”

“Bye,” Marianne whispered. She dragged herself up from the table, trying not to look her disappointment in the eye.

She was surprised by how quickly the headmistress snapped the study door behind them.

“Good Christmas?” she was asked quickly, by a voice that was very slightly too high, and a little too light.

“Very, thank you,” Marianne said. “I spent it with my father. And you?”

“Quiet.” Miss Blanchard played with her hands for a moment, dithering before the fire. At last, she said helplessly. “We have several photography sessions coming up over the next couple of weeks.”

“We do,” Marianne confirmed, her gut sinking slightly.

“I just wanted to check that you still were keen to go ahead with them,” Miss Blanchard said, still twisting her fingers. That was something Héloïse did, Marianne realised, with a pang. When she was nervous.

“Very keen,” Marianne replied with what she prayed was a genuine smile, “If you are still comfortable with the idea.”

“Yes!” Miss Blanchard exclaimed, releasing her hands, letting them smack her legs like door knockers. “I just didn’t want to presume. It will be a lot of time together, and if, after all the excitement… of last term, you were having any second thoughts about being able to…”

“I am looking forward to it,” Marianne said, hoping to goodness that she sounded sincere.

Miss Blanchard’s answering stare was, for the first time, skeptical. “Really?” she said, sounding much more like herself.

“Yes, really,” Marianne answered. I want to know you, she thought. I want to make this okay between you. Between us. Please.

“Because we would pay you for the time you have already…” Miss Blanchard began, but Marianne interrupted.

“It’s not about the money,” she insisted, with a little more vehemence than intended.

Miss Blanchard’s expression became careful. “I did not mean to imply that it was.”

“No, I’m sure,” Marianne went on. “But. I would like to continue. If you would be happy for me to. If you would be comfortable with that.”

“I would,” Miss Blanchard said softly.

“Good,” Marianne said, trying to smile, but not quite managing. “Does Tuesday still work for you?”

“Yes.”

“Then,” she said. “Unless there’s anything else.”

“Of course. Please.” Miss Blanchard indicated the door. “Big term ahead,” she said, with that heartiness that Marianne now knew to be affected. “Eyes on the prize. Head in the game.”

“Head in the game!” Even the next day, Héloïse was still grinning about it. “I just can’t believe she said that. I have never, in all my life, heard her use a sporting metaphor.”

Marianne was laughing back, if only because she loved seeing Héloïse’s smile, and she couldn’t kiss her here. Not in the kitchenette. Not on the first day of term. “Maybe she thought,” Marianne suggested, “with all the netball they’ve got me doing, that she was speaking my language.”

“She’s flustered by you, I think,” Héloïse countered.

“Is she?” Marianne asked, as if it were a compliment. It had felt like a compliment.

Héloïse nodded. “She’s never been comfortable… with the idea…”

Marianne frowned and waited, but nothing came. “What? That you’re gay?” she suggested softly. A frown. A strong shake of the head. “That you’re all grown up and hot, then?” she teased.

Héloïse laughed, blushing at her collar like the petals of a daisy. “Stop it,” she murmured.

“Is that it?” Marianne whispered, delightedly, watching the discomfort rise. “She’s unhappy that I want you? That I can barely keep my hands off her little girl?”

“Marianne.”

“That I want you to back me into a broom closet, right now, and do me?”

The change in temperature was immediate. Héloïse was staring, as if she had been slapped across the cheek. Marianne had not seen that face in weeks. “That is not going to happen,” Héloïse stated.

Marianne, for a moment, was dumbfounded. “It was a joke,” she murmured. “I didn’t mean…”

“Very funny.” Héloïse put the coffee cup down. She never did that. The Monet mug practically lived with her in the Classics room now, the edge a little gummy with her lip salve. She shouldered past.

“Héloïse,” Marianne called after her. But it was no good. She heard the art block door shut. It didn’t even slam. It might have been better if it had.

Marianne found that she could only watch as Héloïse strode across the quad, with her hands in her pockets, blunt hunched against the cold.

“So,” Sophie said later, into the deathly quiet, as they ate their lunch at a stalemate. “It’s going… well? Then? With Héloïse?”

Marianne shot her such a look over her carrot sticks that any lesser studio assistant would have crumbled immediately into sawdust. They stared one another down for a moment or two, as Marianne chewed on her salad, furious, and wretched, and if she were honest, not a little confused.

“Maybe,” Sophie murmured, “you should talk? To her?”

Marianne rolled her eyes, wiped her face. Before slamming her Tupperware onto the table and striding out of the art block without a word.

She marched over the quad. She opened the door to Héloïse’s classroom without knocking. Found her marking. Marking. Always bloody marking. She made sure to shut the door, stay away from the windows.

“I don’t know what I’ve done,” she announced, finding that her voice was shaking. “Will you please tell me what I’ve done, so that I can either be properly sorry, or tell you that you’re being a tit?”

Héloïse’s eyes were puffy, her face pale. “I’m working,” she said, but her voice jumped as she said it. Marianne folded her arms, watched, as Héloïse fiddled with the pen in her hands, for a long moment, spinning it over her fingers, before chucking it onto the desk with a clatter and lengthening back in her chair. She sat with her legs outstretched, her hands jammed into her pockets, rigid as a pikestaff, her head poked forward. She spoke quietly, almost to herself. “This is one of those situations where I assume everyone knows everything. And are talking about it all. And they don’t. And they aren’t.” She raised her eyes, appealing. “Isn’t it?”

Marianne shrugged. “Probably,” she mumbled. “Sounds sufficiently complicated for you.”

Héloïse glanced at her watch. “Quick, then,” she muttered. She stood, strode towards the door, taking Marianne’s hand as she went, pulled her out into the quad.

“Wait. Where are we going?”

“Not here,” she muttered. “Too weird.” She locked the classroom behind them. “It’s his.”

She led them through the door in the wall, the one that bounced perfectly to admit the wheelbarrow, along the gravel path beyond to the chapel gardens, and after a moment’s hesitation, into the greenhouse. The air was damply fuggy, close, smelling nicely of warm earth and green things. Héloïse let go of Marianne’s hand, leaned heavily against the table.

She spoke to the floor. “My parents divorced because my father was having an affair,” she said, loudly, as if afraid of being asked to say it twice. There was a pause, which dragged on just long enough for Marianne to consider saying that, all in all, that didn’t sound so very terrible, when Héloïse added, “with a gap year student.”

Marianne started. “Oh.” How old was Sophie? Eighteen? Nineteen? “Oh,” she dumbly repeated.

Héloïse was looking up at her, her head on one side, her eyes beseeching. “Someone walked in on them. On school property,” she said. “Not a pupil. Thankfully.”

“They didn’t fire him?”

“They were both adults. And he would have fought them every step, if they tried. Made a scene. They hate scenes, here.” Héloïse had the same rueful expression, shrunk in on herself. “Not as if he wasn’t punished in other ways. He was basically a pariah from then on. And it was humiliating. For mummy, too. Obviously. Sometimes, I wonder if that’s why he did it. I mean, I can see.” She shut her eyes, tight. “I can see how his mind would justify it. I could always see his side.” Her smile was so full of pain, it was almost a grimace. “We’re so alike.”

Marianne caught herself looking at the watch, the shoes, the collared shirt. She reached first for one hand, and then the other, taking them up like reins.

“You,” she said gently, “are never cruel.”

“You can’t know that,” she whispered. “Do you think he was always like that? He wasn’t. Every living creature will lash out, eventually,” she murmured, “if they feel threatened, or trapped.”

Marianne squeezed the fingers. “Do you feel trapped, Héloïse?”

The timid eyes rose. And her hands squeezed back. And the lack of reply was answer enough.

They walked towards the school, hand in hand. “Is this okay?” Marianne asked.

“Yes,” Héloïse murmured. “It’s lovely. I don’t want you to think…”

“I don’t.”

“You do know that I want you all the time?”

“I know.”

Marianne felt a grip over her hand, before it was released, before they walked separately back through the gate of the garden, into the world outside. “That’s part of what scares me,” Héloïse murmured; “wanting you so much.”

“Can you come over tonight?” Marianne asked. “Please.”

Héloïse frowned for a moment, and there was a long pause. They walked in step, but internally Marianne was panicking. They had spent only one night apart since New Year. ‘Not tonight,’ her mind was begging. ‘Not after an argument. Please, let me show you.’

“No. I think,” Héloïse said quietly, “I think that I would like you to come to mine.”

It wasn’t that Marianne hadn’t wondered about Héloïse’s flat.

Héloïse had talked about it often enough, mostly about how much less convenient it was than Marianne’s. How it was a little dingy compared to Marianne’s place, and had less room for them both to stretch out. How it didn’t have as many coffee appliances. How there were neighbours. With ears.

Of course, Marianne had been curious. As with all of Héloïse’s qualms, she had trusted that, when Héloïse was ready to open that door, she would do so fully and without prompting. But now that Marianne was faced with actually going there, for the first time, she seemed to catch some of Héloïse’s lingering hesitation.

“Worst case scenario?” Sophie asked her, gaming out her nervousness as they tidied up after the final class. “Are you worried there will be leopard print? Wrestling posters? Taxidermy?”

“I don’t know,” Marianne confessed. “I think I’m more worried for her. I don’t want to make her uncomfortable in her own space, you know?”

“Does she make you uncomfortable in yours?”

‘She defines it,’ Marianne wanted to say. ‘We share natural borders.’

“No,” she replied instead.

“Then don’t be a daft banana,” Sophie advised. “Go and embarrass the neighbours.”

Marianne took senior prep that night, watching over the year eights as they worked away on their studies. She was typing up a plan for the first meeting of photography club, finding the old templates for box cameras. Héloïse had been vague, about whether she wanted to be involved. “No, it sounds fascinating,” she said. “I just have a lot of work this term. Scholarship preparation.” And the reluctant eyes, noting Marianne’s disappointment, dipping, reconsidering. “But you will help me make one, won’t you?”

“What?”

“A camera.”

“Miss?”

Marianne raised her head. Callum approached her desk, bearing an exercise book, and an expression of anxious despair. “Yes, Callum?”

“I don’t understand,” he mouthed.

Marianne panicked slightly. “Well, you’re allowed one question per prep, Callum. Do you want to ask someone in your class?”

Callum shook his head slowly silently. “I already did.”

He was a big child, one of those twelve year olds who had shot up suddenly over the previous summer, and still seemed giddy at the height. He was also, Marianne had gathered, Good At Sport. He bore a little prefect badge on his jumper. This evening it dangled a little loose. She sighed. “Pull up a chair then,” she said, privately praying, ‘Anything but Geography.’

He plopped down his exercise book. Maths. Marianne took a deep breath. “Well, okay, Callum. What do we know about internal and external angles?”

It wasn’t that he was slow. There were just some fundamentals that he needed explaining in a slightly different way.

“So how do we make it simple?”

“Simple?”

“It looks very complicated, doesn’t it? But what if you complete the parallelogram? That’s right. Now do you see?”

“That angle is the same as this one. 115 degrees.”

“Perfect. And now you can calculate _c._ You see how just adding those two lines made it all so neat?” They were still working away together when the home bell went. “Is that any clearer, Callum?”

He nodded, in that same unconcerned fashion he had done in the art room. But there was a glow to him, and he had lost his anxious slump.

Marianne was picking up her bag as the prep room emptied, raised her head to see that Héloïse was already waiting in her jacket, a shy smile on her mouth. “Are you ready?” she asked, quietly.

They walked side by side, a little awkwardly, something soft and unspoken between them that Marianne found she couldn’t quite name.

“What is it?” she asked at length. They were ambling down the walkway, and Héloïse had neither reached for her hand, nor jumped for the first beam. “Is it wrong again?”

“No,” Héloïse replied quietly. “I saw you with Callum. I didn’t know you liked Maths.”

“Really?” Marianne thought for a moment. “I do. I always have. I love its elegance.”

Héloïse was smiling at her, but frowning at the same time.

“What?” Marianne demanded.

“Elegance. Such a strange word for numbers.”

“Is it?” she said. “But it’s the right one. It used to take my breath away, seeing the balance, the symmetry. I thought about reading it at university. Before I got into the Slade.”

There was another silence beside her. Marianne turned to look, and found that Héloïse was still gazing at her, as if she had just revealed that she spoke another language, or had a twin. “There are volumes and volumes of you,” Héloïse murmured, “that I have not read. Aren’t there? That I did not even know to look for.”

Marianne smiled back. “Of course,” she said. “And one still being written. You feature.”

Héloïse laughed. “Do I?”

“Heavily.”

As they crossed the school boundary, Héloïse reached over, and took her hand, and held it tight the rest of the way.

The flat was the attic of a Georgian townhouse, one that had been carved out into apartments. Marianne had passed the building several times, and never imagined.

“It’s beautiful,” she breathed, as they wound up the common staircase. There was a central lantern in the roof, curved glass looking up into a black sky.

“It might not,” Héloïse began haltingly, “be what you’re expecting.”

She opened the front door, and left it wide for Marianne to enter. “Please,” she said. While she made a big deal of checking the mail cubby in the hall, fiddling animatedly with her keys. “I’ll just be a second. Go in, please.”

Marianne would have waited. But the repeated ‘please’ was so emphatic, that she obeyed. She flicked the switch in the hall.

Strong, old fashioned furniture, designed for a much larger space than this, was crammed into the little entryway. A hat stand, with a mirror built in, covered in coats, hats and flat caps, for walking, for cricket, for church. A shooting stick and an umbrella leaned next to one another on the leaded base. A bookcase, much too large, dominated the one other major section of wall. It was crammed with academic texts, spines malformed with reference. Marianne wandered through into the living room. Again, she flicked the light. A leather armchair, in a heavy, shining brown, with a mismatched footrest, embroidered with a maiden and a unicorn. A desk, inlaid again with leather, this time in red, the kind that would stain your hand if you lingered overlong, studded around the edge with smooth, brass tacks, worn bright and shiny at the front by the rub of working wrists, stained almost black by the window. There were no papers. No computer. A rug, excessive for the space, overlapped the grate of the fireplace. And books. Every other wall was books. No space on the walls for art, or photographs, or any kind of memory that was not glued into a leather spine, stamped in gold, and alphabetised by author. The overwhelming impression was one of displacement; the heaviness of the furnishings, the sheer unnerving population of books, huddled under too low a ceiling, like refugees in an unwelcoming land. The whole room strained.

There was a mirror, above the mantle. In its dim reflection, Marianne could see Héloïse lurking in the doorway.

“This was your father’s.” A dumb nod. “Everything.” Another nod.

“I never meant to stay,” Héloïse said. “I moved in to try to help. Him. And then, afterwards.” Playing with her fingers, they way her mother did. “It never seemed to be the right moment. I’m still waiting…”

“This is why you do all your work at school?”

She stared around the room’s innards, as if they were the stomach of a bear. “I hadn’t thought about it,” she murmured. “But, I suppose so.”

Marianne followed her gaze, asked her quietly, “Where do you sleep?”

They edged down the corridor, Marianne leading, there were only so many doors. They passed a small kitchen, the kind with one work surface, and a two person table looking out over the roof tiles. A little bathroom, with a cast iron tub, and a high level cistern suspended above a wooden loo seat like a guillotine. Through the next door, Marianne caught sight of a bedstead, and she nearly entered. But Héloïse touched her sleeve, said softly, “No.” And they continued down the corridor, to the room at the far end.

There was no bed; only a mattress on the floor, neatly made up. An angle-poise lamp sat on the floorboards next to it, for reading. A small pile of books. Ovid. Sarah Waters. Margaret Atwood. Books on education. A chest of drawers, in that same heavy wood, pairs of trainers, of brogues, and of slippers, tucked underneath. On top, an iron; a single plastic coated album of photographs. An ironing board folded against the wall. An elderly-looking teddy propped next to the pillow.

Marianne turned to the figure behind her, reached, pulled Héloïse in, closed her eyes, kissed her. Felt the slight hesitation melt, and drew her closer still, stroked at her cheeks, held her by the waist and shoulder.

“Where do you hide?” she whispered between kisses.

“I can’t,” Héloïse murmured.

Marianne tugged at the waist band of the trousers, releasing the warm shirt beneath the jumper, running her hands over the hot belly beneath, feeling it tighten, raising Héloïse’s arms with questing fingers, mussing the blonde hair with dark wool. She reached for the buttons of her shirt, working quickly as they kissed.

“Now?” Héloïse whispered, wondering, panting already.

“Yes.”

“You’re sure?” Her hands already lifting, stroking wide over the skin of Marianne’s back, fingers spreading like slow ivy.

“Yes.” Something of your own. Let me give you something. Please. Let me. “Yes.”

It was more joyful than probably either of them anticipated. The bear helped. Héloïse kept finding its lumpen shape at odd moments, to her increasingly hilarious annoyance. Until, at last, she growled, “Florence, you are not invited!”, chucking the offending toy across the room. And Marianne collapsed on top of her in sweaty laughter, kissing and giggling down Héloïse’s torso. She tucked her shoulders beneath the long thighs, slid her forearms under the soft back. And she felt Héloïse’s hands come to rest, heavy, behind her ears, give the slightest encouraging press. And she felt an almost intolerable joy rise up, and laughed again; because it was funny, when you thought about it, and she watched the perfect stomach trembling in reply with low giggles, with excitement.

“Are you hungry?” Héloïse asked her later.

“Yes.” Marianne was sealed into her side, eyes lidded, slow, everything slack and spent.

“Can you move, do you think?”

“No.”

“Tricky.”

Marianne listened to the steady thud of Héloïse’s heart. The whispering rush of her breathing. “What have you been waiting for?” Marianne mumbled. “Do you know?”

“I’ve started wondering that. Just recently,” Héloïse replied, staring at the bare ceiling, her hand stroking through Marianne’s hair. “I have a horrible feeling, that it might be permission.”

Marianne felt herself sliding towards sleep. “No one can give it. But you.”

The fingers tightened for a moment and Marianne thought of the book in the flames. “Why?”

“You’re loyal to him,” she mumbled into Héloïse’s breast. “It’s inside. A holding pattern for the heart, you said.”

As she nodded off, Marianne felt a kiss fasten on the top of her head, felt the mumble of words she recognised, before she stumbled away into happy oblivion.

“It has changed. With you. Everything feels… I feel everything… with you.”


	15. An Invitation to Change

“How long for this one?”

Marianne clicked the light meter, ran the calculation in her head against the film she was using. “A minute and a half,” she said.

“And we’re doing two, again?” Miss Blanchard winced at the washed out daylight. It was the light of sudden thunderstorms, flat, and disconcerting. Like a wall of brass.

“I’ll take some reference footage with my phone,” Marianne said, setting up a miniature tripod on the desk. “If you’re comfortable with that. It helps me to interpret the movement.”

“I don’t know why you don’t just work entirely from the footage and be done,” Miss Blanchard commented drily.

Marianne felt something in the day diminish. So that was where they had got to. No longer curious. No longer enquiring. Decided. There is a better way. And you are idiotic not to have seen it. Or if not idiotic, then pretentious. And if not pretentious, then a fraud.

Marianne wanted to argue back. She wanted to defend her process. Instead, she said, “Abby used to work a lot from video. Did you ever see any of her stuff? Pick a spot. And ready? Open.”

Miss Blanchard looked flustered, for a moment. “No, I never did,” she muttered.

“She’s very talented,” Marianne replied, lightly. “Very deep, intellectual, funny. We were all jealous of the crowds she could pull in at shows.”

“The siren call of the television set,” Miss Blanchard said cynically, with a raised eyebrow.

“Yes. But she would play with that,” Marianne commented. “It made her laugh, that her work could command time, to an extent. What is it, in a gallery, that makes you feel you can walk away from a video installation before it is complete? Should you, as an artist, fight against that instinct in the viewer, or embrace it?” Marianne smiled at a memory. “She did a whole series called ‘Rubberneck.’ I can’t explain it properly. You’ll have to ask her. But it was basically this beautiful tease with the viewer. There was a motion sensor, and every time you turned away from the screen, it would change to a different animation.” Marianne leaned on the desk, lost in muddled youth. “We’d all go into the gallery, just to watch these poor punters, trying desperately to leave Abby’s installation, and being pulled back and back.” She laughed to herself. “One time we made a drinking game.”

“I’m not sure I like the idea of an artist laughing at me, for taking the time and trouble to view their work.” Miss Blanchard’s face was steely.

“We weren’t laughing at them,” Marianne replied. “We were laughing at the instinct. Intellectual completionism. The fear that unless you have seen everything, know everything on a given subject, you can’t hold a justifiable opinion, even if your opinion is, finally, that the whole thing’s a waste of time.” She softened her tone a little. “But the flip side of that instinct is hope, I suppose: the unfounded belief that explanation, that understanding, might be just around the corner. The agony that if you look away at the wrong moment, you might miss it. But your time is ticking. And how long do you wait?”

She slid the pinhole closed. She had decided that today, she wasn’t interested in making her subject comfortable, and smiled to herself as Miss Blanchard shifted awkwardly in her chair, as if newly disenchanted.

“Your joke only works, though,” the headmistress said, glowering ever so slightly, “if the piece itself is meaningless.”

Marianne flipped the film, restrained herself from everything bubbling within her. “It wasn’t my joke,” she wanted to snap. “It was Abby’s. You know? Abby? Fine artist? Who made papier-mâché cow heads for your Nativity plays, and pinned potato prints above your radiators.” Instead she murmured, “I think it is a shame, when people are disappointed by art, because it does not hand them the meaning that they feel it ought to. When the work asks the viewer to try wanting something new, instead. Something they had not previously considered. And, ready? Open.”

“I like what I like,” Miss Blanchard said with a shrug. “The works of art that I love, I love because I can come back to them, over and over, and they mean the same thing. They make me feel the same. They remind me of something, and I find the reminder reassuring. The songs; the films. Héloïse sneers at me, you know?” she said with a tight smile. “She thinks her mother’s sentimental. I think my daughter’s a snob.”

Marianne flinched. “When your daughter fucks me, I can fly,” was what she wanted to say. What she actually said was, “I can see both sides. There are pieces of media that I like, just because I like them. They make me feel comfortable and safe. But, when it comes to art, I have to agree with Héloïse. Art isn’t a shirt for you to put on. Or a flag for you to wave. It doesn’t demand your allegiance. If anything, it does the opposite. Art is a dare. It is an invitation to see more clearly. To think more deeply. A challenge to be vulnerable. To be moved. To change.”

To Marianne’s complete surprise, Miss Blanchard suddenly smiled. Widely. And her gaze held for a moment with a brimming affection for which Marianne was utterly, totally unprepared. “I like that,” she murmured. “‘Art is a dare’.” She was still for a moment. “Do you think you could give that little speech to the board of governors? The next time we are arguing the merits of updating the theatre versus yet more sporting facilities?”

“Better yet,” Marianne said, sliding the pinhole cover. “Get it printed on a hoodie. Mass produced. Sell it to the world.”

Miss Blanchard laughed. “Now, Marianne,” she said standing, wagging a finger, “would we consider that to be satirical, or just meta?”

“Why limit ourselves?” Marianne said, unscrewing the camera, folding up the tripod, smiling. In spite of herself. “If it’s both, we can sell it to more people.”

Again, that smoker’s laugh, easy and genuine. And the day was full once more, the brass light shining.

There was a knock at the door. “Yes!” Miss Blanchard called out. “Oh, and that reminds me,” she said to Marianne. “The inevitable has happened, and I am told you are to blame.”

“I am?”

Miss Blanchard raised an eyebrow. “Otters sweatshirts.”

“Oh, no.”

“The parents love the idea. They’ve got a little budget together. We’ll do it through our usual printers, I think. But they need a logo.”

Marianne nodded. After all, it would do the girls the world of good in terms of morale. “I’ll ask Sophie. She’ll be brilliant.”

“Make sure she bills for her time, but quick as you can,” Miss Blanchard said kindly. “Before the season is over.” The door opened. “Ah, Héloïse.” Marianne did not even have to look at her to feel her innards leap.

That morning, they had both woken early, and famished. They had boiled eggs, and made toast, brewed a pot of tea, and eaten it all on the overlarge rug before a little fire, wrapped in their duvet and each other.

“Five o’clock should be much too early for all this,” Héloïse murmured.

Marianne had grinned, nuzzled closer into the soft crook of the arm. “Feels perfect to me.”

“We could go back to bed.”

Marianne sighed, as if tempted for a moment. “I have to go home,” she groaned. “Shower. Pick up some bits and pieces. I’m photographing your mother later.”

“Oh.” A little note of annoyance. “Of course you are.”

Marianne turned to look, into that face. The small element of tension, the lower lip gripped just barely. “You’re jealous,” she whispered, running her thumb over the heavy eyebrows, cupping the soft cheek.

Héloïse murmured, “I have always found it hard to share with her.”

Marianne could have asked why. She could have asked whether Héloïse really imagined there could be any comparison. Instead, she smiled and whispered, “We said a week of being selfish.”

Héloïse laughed ruefully. “ _You_ said,” she replied. And again, that tiny possessive edge; young, and knowing; angrily wishing itself away.

“You’re heaven,” Marianne whispered.

And the glower broke apart into a smile. “Am I?” Marianne nodded, laughed softly, allowing herself to be held, to be gently overcome, cradled backwards onto the carpet. “So, you need Bach to believe in me?”

Laughter. Whispers. Acceptance. Careful of the teapot, of the fire’s edge. “Not today.”

And now. She was standing in the doorway, watching them both. Héloïse. “It sounded like a party in here,” she said. “I didn’t want to interrupt.”

“We were just discussing Art’s grand invitation to change, sweetheart,” Miss Blanchard replied airily.

“Oh, were you?”

“And Otters sweatshirts,” Marianne added, gathering her things together, heading for the doorway. With the tripod in tow, she found she would need Héloïse to make way for her to be able to leave. But for a moment, Héloïse did not move, instead gazing at her with a demanding eye, requiring something before passage would be granted. Bad at sharing, Marianne remembered, with a blush and a low set pang.

“I’ll tell you later,” she whispered, nodding towards the study, the tea, the waiting parent. “Go on.”

And Héloïse seemed to blink awake, embarrassed suddenly, and took a step back, and attentively reached for the door handle.

“Sophie,” Marianne said later, as they mounted the Egyptian projects onto black card together, ready for display. “I know how busy you are.”

“You have a mission for me,” Sophie observed. “Tell all.”

“I mean, do say if you don’t think you have the time right now.”

“Elucidate.”

“It’s just, I think it might be more up your alleyway than mine.”

“Less discussion of our respective alleyways,” Sophie said pointedly; “more Marianne explaining.”

Marianne chuckled in spite of herself. “Otters logos,” she said.

Sophie grinned. “Way the fuck ahead of you.”

“You know, these are so good,” Marianne breathed.

Héloïse was very quiet beside her, her hands folded over her chest, stance wide, as Marianne leafed through the little pile of designs again.

“They really are,” Marianne insisted into her companion’s silence. “The sheer variety she has, of style, of design. She must have spent hours.”

“And she did it all off her own bat?” Héloïse said. Something about her voice was stony. “No prompting?”

But Marianne was lost in admiration. “Completely her own initiative.”

“No dropped hints?”

Marianne finally caught up with the tone and turned to shoot Héloïse a look. “Not from me,” she said. “What are you asking?”

“She’s young,” Héloïse muttered, shoulders tight. “She wants to make a good impression. You said it yourself. It must have taken her ages.”

“You think I manipulated her into several hours’ worth of otter doodles?” Héloïse looked belligerent. “Does that sound like Sophie?” Marianne demanded, laughing incredulously.

“No.”

“Does that sound like me?” Héloïse was glowering, and Marianne found suddenly that she could no longer laugh at her. “Does it?”

Héloïse rubbed her lip with her thumb. “I was just checking.”

“Héloïse!” Marianne faced her down. “Look at me. Does that sound like something I would do? To Sophie?” She was biting her lip, not answering. “Well, your silence is hurtful, frankly.”

“So is your collusion,” Héloïse muttered.

Marianne stared at her. “My what?”

Héloïse eyes were narrowed, unrepentant. “They could afford to pay for a designer,” she said. “You know that. Tons of money sloshing about this place. But, no. Why bother, when the teenager in the art department will be grateful just to be asked? Good exposure. Good for the CV. _Lovely_ little project for her.”

Marianne folded her arms. “She is being paid a professional rate,” she said simply.

Héloïse dropped her eyes, slumped over a little, like a tumbled knapsack. “Oh.” She bit her lip, the way she did when she was embarrassed.

Marianne went to her, put a hand on either side of the reddening face, stroked the eyebrows with her thumbs. “What is this?” she whispered. “Where is this coming from?”

“I don’t know.” Héloïse’s hands had risen to hold Marianne’s wrists, keep her gentle fingers in place, like a child gripping the pool’s edge. “I don’t know. I’m sorry. I hate it.”

“Did you argue with your mother?”

“No, we…” She shook her head, taking Marianne’s hands with the rough movement. “We never argue. It isn’t like that with us.”

She held Marianne’s hands against her temples, her eyes closed, a telegraph operator trying desperately to interpret a garbled signal, and failing. Marianne glanced around them, the empty studio, the closed doors, the deserted yard outside, and pressed her lips softly above one eyebrow. Not lingering. Hoping only to reassure. To remind. We can argue. We can be wrong. And this is still us.

“Come over, later,” she murmured.

Héloïse’s eyes opened. “I’m taking prep.”

“Afterwards.”

“I have marking.”

“Bring it with you.”

A moment’s hesitation, the grip of the hands a little rigid, but still holding firm. “Okay.”

“Okay?” A quiet nod, eyes diverted, lip chewed. She drew Marianne’s hands away from her face, held them for just a moment in her lap, looking lost, and small.

That was the first time that Marianne really wanted to say it; into the frown, the pout, the stubborn face, ashamed of its own belligerence, feeling unworthy of its sudden release. Marianne very much wanted to say it, but it was too soon. She had fought against whispering it in the dark, before now, murmuring over sweaty pillows. She hadn’t wanted it to be seen as a heady response to a fleeting moment. She didn’t want it to become the answer to their squabbles either. But the urge to tell her was somehow stronger here, now, in the quiet studio, her wrists held in sheepish, nervy hands, than it ever had been in their bed. She held back. She extricated herself. “Now, which one do you think, Captain?” she murmured, stroking the wayward blonde curls back from the furrowed brow, tucking behind the hot ears.

The green eyes met hers, leaping towards the little tease with a heartbreaking gratitude. I understand this, they seemed to say. I can handle this. Can it be this again, just for now? Just until I understand?

Héloïse’s smile was rueful and self-deprecating. And she pointed at three of the designs, one after the other. “The team will want this; the parents will want this. And Mrs Badger and Mummy will like this one. So, that’s the one they’ll have.”

And, as it turned out, on every single count, she was right.

Later, in Marianne’s bed, the covers kicked off, Héloïse slowed, relaxing their rhythm almost to a stop, not quite, not quite stilling, just enough to keep Marianne afloat. Héloïse gazed down, sighing into a slack kiss, her blonde hair hanging loose from its ragged pony tail, her arm shuddering just a little. “You know when,” she murmured, her low voice trembling, “we didn’t do this?” Marianne nodded dumbly, her mind drawn far back and away like a bow string, mouth hanging open. Héloïse whispered to her, “How did we breathe?”

Marianne shook her head wildly, reaching her jumping fingers, to drive through soft hair, over heated skin, gasping. “I don’t remember.”

“Have you ever worried that you solve your problems with sex?” Marianne asked Abby, the next time she called. There was a stony silence from the other end of the phone, and the muffled sound of a baby whingeing.

“Champ,” Abby said drily. “Pick your audience.”

“I’m really sorry, mate,” Marianne murmured. “I am. But, you’re kind of the only audience I’ve got.”

She had thought about asking other people. Sophie was too young to understand. She did not have that kind of relationship with Mrs Badger. Or Miss Blanchard. She had tried to imagine having this conversation with her father. And had nearly cried.

Abby sighed into the loaded silence. “Things not going well with Héloïse, then?”

“Most of the time, it’s wonderful,” Marianne said softly. “She’s wonderful. We’re…”

“Most of the time?” Abby’s voice was not as gentle as Marianne would have liked.

“We argue about weird things,” Marianne confessed haltingly. “School. Not even work, really. Just _the_ school. I never quite know how it happens. I can’t ever see it coming.”

“And then you have amazing make up sex?”

“Kind of? I don’t know if that’s even the word for it, really.”

Abby groaned, deep from the gut. “Well, that might just be your dynamic,” she said dismissively. “Bully-for-you and hooray. At least someone’s getting some, hey, Bea? _Some-_ one’s _gett_ -ing _laid_!”

“But, I mean. It’s never that angry kind of make up sex, you know? It’s just becoming an easy reset button, because it’s simple between us and… and really good.” She tried not imagine Abby’s face. She tried to explain how it all felt strange and sad suddenly. “We used to talk about things.”

“So, talk about things.”

“It never seems to be the right time.”

“That will be all the nudity. Look. Champ,” Abby said. “You know I love you, don’t you?”

Marianne blushed into the phone. “Yes.”

“So, this comes from a place of love when I say, stop being a ludicrous cunt.” Marianne laughed in spite of herself. “Okay? You’re, what, a month into this thing? You’ve just got out of a long term schlep. With a man. You’re in a new place. With new people. And Héloïse is… well… Héloïse is Héloïse. And that’s its own tall, blonde kettle of fish. Which I did try to warn you about.”

“You did.”

“See? Good friend!” Abby exclaimed. Then her voice was kind and teasing and sisterly again, and Marianne remembered why she had rung. “Stop being a ludicrous cunt, Marianne. Say what needs saying. And if it spoils things? Fine. Maybe things need to spoil just a little. That’s how you know it’s a relationship and not a fling. And if it ends? Well, that’s got to be fine, too. Doesn’t change anything, if something really needed to be said.”

Marianne was quiet for a moment. “Does it really need to be said, though?” she asked, almost pleading.

Again that dry silence. “You rang a woman with two children under three,” she said, “to whinge about all the confusingly great sex you’re having. _Something_ sure as fuck needs saying.”

That Sunday, Marianne woke first, looked out of the window at the milky light, and made a decision. She wriggled over Héloïse’s sleeping shape, went to the kitchen, boiled the kettle twice and fried up some bacon. Héloïse’s warmth appeared behind her a few minutes later, wrapping its long arms around her, kissing her hair, before pausing, taking stock, stroking her belly with instinctive hands.

“The bacon is in baggies,” she said, her sleepy voice raspy and sweet. She was looking at the sandwich packets on the counters. “Why is the bacon in baggies?”

“It’s frosty,” Marianne replied, turning, kissing. “Come on. I’ve made a thermos.”

They walked towards the river, listening to the sounds of church bells competing from across the meadows. The paths had frozen in their muddy churning, like narrow black carvings of a stormy sea. Marianne and Héloïse hobbled over them, passing the thermos of tea back and forth as they walked in their gloves, hats, scarves. They reached the weir, and again, ignored the obvious bench with its view of the dividing water. Marianne had brought a blanket in the bag, and laid it out on the slope overlooking the same hillside as before. She sat, her knees raised, and Héloïse reclined easily into her side, careful to keep her welly boots off the blanket’s edge.

The view was, as Héloïse had warned, absurdly beautiful, almost too beautiful to look at. And they sat, averting their gazes from the bright sun glinting off ice, steaming into the cold, with their purple-pinched noses and bacon sandwiches. Héloïse was sucking brown sauce off her thumb, when Marianne finally felt she could say it.

“You get angry at the strangest things,” she murmured quietly.

Héloïse wiped her hands on the blanket, checked them for fluff, put them back into her gloves. “I know,” she said softly. “I know that I do.”

“Why?”

“I think it’s more that… I’m angry most of the time.” She pressed back with her shoulder into Marianne’s flank, a little more firmly. “I’m sorry.”

“Is it me?”

“No.” But there was a defensive note to the voice.

Marianne sighed. “Is it me, a little bit, some of the time?” And the delay before answering was a touch too long, and the shoulders snuggled backwards even further.

Héloïse’s voice was apologetic. “It isn’t anything rational, though.”

Marianne resisted the doting laughter, if only because Héloïse had sounded so grave. “That’s why it’s important.”

Héloïse reached up her gloved hands, drew Marianne’s arms about herself like a seat belt. She held on tight for a long moment, then whispered, “I never wanted to be a teacher.”

“Me neither.”

Héloïse smiled. “You remember when you said you knew too many artists?”

“God. Yes.” Marianne let her nose and mouth rub through Héloïse’s hair. “What did you want to be?”

There was a rueful laugh. “A happy academic,” she muttered. “To think enormous thoughts forever, amid dreaming spires.”

Marianne squeezed her arms tighter. “You don’t seem the type,” she said softly.

“Don’t I?”

“Too much fire.”

“I was good enough,” Héloïse said quietly.

“That’s never a good enough reason.”

“I’m a good enough teacher too,” Héloïse countered, darkly. “Turns out. Genes! Whoever would have guessed?” She dipped lower in Marianne’s arms, so that they lay over her chest. “And I like it,” she confessed to the blank sky. “I’ve never been sure how I feel about that.”

Marianne stroked the upper arms of the jacket, pressed her lips into the warm neck. She said, “Maybe, it’s hard to accept that something good came out of it all.” At that, Héloïse stiffened, but Marianne was ready for it, and held her firm and close. If that was wrong, she would have to say. She would have to use her words. But there was only the silence of hard consideration, the movement of Héloïse’s hands over Marianne’s wrists.

“Maybe,” she said at last. “But it wasn’t what I would have chosen. If I had chosen to be a teacher, I would never have picked a school like Otterbourne. I would have wanted to teach in the state sector.”

“I can see that,” Marianne murmured affectionately. “So, why don’t you?”

Héloïse’s voice was indistinct. “Because, I’m not qualified,” she breathed, her eyes, huge, unblinking ponds. “First class degree from Cambridge, six years of teaching under my belt, more scholarships awarded to my pupils than ever in the history of this stupid little school… And I’m not qualified to teach anywhere else.” She opened her mouth, and gently bit the inside of Marianne’s wrist, not to hurt, just to press with the hard teeth in the cold air, before her mouthing became a kiss again, and Marianne was put suddenly in mind of the bitter pips at the apple’s core. Héloïse’s voice was a tired whisper. “And the years roll round, and the kids come up, and you feel you can’t leave, because _this_ year group needs you, and then _this_ one, and _this_ … And suddenly you’ve been out of university for longer than you were in. And the road back isn’t at all how you remembered.”

“You feel stuck,” Marianne said simply. A slow nod. “And I’m just another thing to keep you here?” A smaller nod, sad, contrite. “But, you know,” she said quietly, “that I’m leaving.” The fingers gripped harder. “And I have no idea what I’m going to do next. It’s terrifying. But it’s possible. If that’s what you want. I know, it will feel harder for you.”

Héloïse rolled suddenly in her arms, gazing up at her. “Why would it?”

Marianne smiled at her surprise. Stroked her hair. “Obvious reasons.”

“You still think I belong here?” Héloïse demanded, her eyes blazing suddenly, but not pushing herself away; if anything wriggling closer. “Like the gymkhana crowd? Like the foreign office orphans?”

“Yes!” Marianne cried, practically laughing. “More so than any of them. This place runs in your veins, whether you like it or not. That’s why you think you hate it. The way other little girls think they hate their bodies, because they look just like their mothers, and their mothers hated theirs. You belong here.” She stroked the outraged cheeks. “You do. But that doesn’t mean you have to stay.”

Héloïse stared into her face, her expression burning, as if she were on the cusp of a thousand cruelties. But then, she curled in, put her arms around both of Marianne’s knees, and propped her chin on top, gazing at the frosted grass at the blanket’s edge, at the curl of her own breath. “Can we sit out here for a bit?” she asked. “It’s nice.”

“Of course,” Marianne whispered. She poured more tea from the flask, and they passed it between them, while Marianne rubbed Héloïse’s back through three layers of clothes, and Héloïse lazily stroked Marianne’s legs, the act being more important than the feeling. The sun pushed its way weakly through the cloud, and the grass around them began to thaw into greens and browns, the colours made all the richer by shrugging off their pale shrouds. Marianne stretched her arms in the sudden warmth. “You just need an escape plan,” she said at last.

“I’ve had a plan for years,” Héloïse replied, and her hands squeezed Marianne’s knees hard and close and, again, she dragged her teeth over the trouser knees, before resting her mouth there for a long moment, her eyes shut. She murmured damply into the fabric, “I’ve just never had a map before.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How about some heavenly Bach, courtesy of the Far from the Tree spotify playlist and ridiculousmavis:
> 
> [Now That's What I Call Atonal Postmodern Symphonic](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/3fPdiEQLH73sqSmaYFLYEP?si=bE3gE0IJRhid9Lp3ZFXPag)


	16. On Mishaps

“So, why is it,” Marianne was asking the group, “do you think, that we use a layer of red electrical tape over the seams?”

The members of photography club were all intent on cutting out their cube nets, skeletons of their very first pinhole cameras, and the careful chewing of sharp scissors through black card was the only sound in the peaceful studio.

Esme McKinnon suggested, “To stop the light getting in?”

“Very good,” Marianne replied. “Yes, it’s to guard against light leaks, but why not use just the black tape? That would be better at keeping the light out entirely, wouldn’t it?”

The room was silent. “Why do you think the safelight in the darkroom is red?” Marianne asked into the quiet. “Why do you think it’s called a safelight?” Again, a stony pause.

These children, she thought, who had grown up with photography being the press of a thumb, a freezing of pixels. Her father would be beside himself. She could not remember a time when she had not known at least the most basic dangers of film.

She spoke again to the gentle sounds of snipping. “The paper that we will load into your cameras,” she said. “How does a picture get on it do you think?” There was a small collection of shrugs.

Marianne stood, flicked the overhead lights off, just enough to create a gloom, and turned on her phone’s torch. She cast a shadow of her own hand onto the table, between the busy snippers. “It’s like this,” she said. “The paper has an emulsion on it, a chemical which reacts to light. Where light hits the paper, it causes a reaction on the surface. The pattern left by the light will become black when we develop it in the dark room.”

“A negative!”

“Exactly, Hector,” Marianne said, putting the overhead lights back on. “A negative. Where the light and the dark swap places. So… if the paper reacts to light, why is it okay to use a red bulb in the dark room? Why do we try to make sure that any light leaks in the seams of the camera travel through red tape?”

Héloïse was in the doorway. Marianne no longer even needed to look up to know it. It was a shift in the weight of the air, a contraction of space. Marianne continued, not ignoring the arrival, just accommodating its new presence. She had learned weeks ago that the episode with Callum had been no fluke. Héloïse enjoyed watching her teach.

“Why?” Marianne had asked once, laughing. Héloïse was snuggling her hips closer as they stood next to one another in the kitchenette, over their morning cup of coffee.

A bashful, happy shrug of the shoulders. “Don’t know. Makes me feel all warm,” Héloïse had said, “in the tummy department.”

“It’s not a sex thing, is it?” Marianne had whispered.

Héloïse blushed, deeply. This rarely happened. Through a shame-faced grin, she confessed, “Most you things are a sex thing right now.”

“Is this to do with rainbows?” Charlie Fordyce asked.

“Very good,” Marianne replied, allowing her eyes to flick up to where Héloïse stood. “How might it be to do with rainbows?”

“The way white light is really all of the colours, all at the same time,” he answered. Héloïse unseen by anyone else, gave a thumbs up from the doorway. Marianne felt herself smile.

“Excellent, Charlie. The photo paper we’re using doesn’t react to all of the colours in the light. Just the blue and green parts of the spectrum. Red light won’t cause the chemical reaction with the emulsion. That’s why we use the red tape on the cameras. So that, in case there are any accidents, at least the light getting through is red, and therefore harmless.”

“Are you sure you don’t want to join in?” she murmured to Héloïse a little later, passing close to the doorway.

“I’m really just popping by,” Héloïse replied.

“Just? You’ve been here nearly ten minutes, already,” Marianne softly teased. “Stay if you’re staying.”

“I can’t.”

“Well, then.” Marianne went over to the card pile, and picked up one of the templates she had drawn out in preparation, handing it over with a grin. “In your own time, then.” Héloïse was glaring at her, trying not to react, not trusting herself. “If you intend to keep popping by, that is.”

Marianne had not been at all surprised later, on sneaking a glance into Héloïse’s classroom, to see her, elbows on her desk, tongue poking just slightly between her lips, carefully cutting out the template, while her Latin set worked on an exercise. The seriousness of her expression would have been funny, if it had not also been completely adorable.

That evening, pressed up against the shower wall, with the water threatening to run cold over them at any moment, Marianne kept laughing at the memory. And then, as Héloïse looked at her in delighted confusion, she was struck hard by the urge to say the thing, the thing which it was still far too early to say, and she had to kiss her instead, over and over, until they might as well have been swimming. “Don’t stop,” became her code word for everything else, everything that was still to come, but which already felt present and real and vital. “It’s so good. Don’t stop.”

“But, really, how long does this last?”

Héloïse was whispering. It was late. Their legs were still entwined, their bodies drawn apart on the bed, only so that they had space enough to cool, and breathe, and gaze.

Marianne reached for her, understanding exactly, but having no answer. “It’s never been like this.”

Héloïse frowned. “Not with…?”

“Never like this.”

Héloïse’s face took on an expression first of amazement, and then of unmistakable pride. She rolled onto her back a little, stretched her shoulders, a grin as wide as a valley creasing her glowing face, and they were both laughing suddenly, shy of something they couldn’t name.

“Now, I feel bad,” Héloïse said letting her arms flop over her chest, staring at the ceiling.

“Why? Marianne asked, tracing lazy patterns over her flank and belly with questing fingers.

Héloïse cringed. “I once yelled at my father that he was oversexed,” she said, “because he joked he hadn’t had any for over a month.”

Marianne laughed loudly. “How old were you?” she asked.

Héloïse shrugged. “Twenty,” she murmured. “Mummy’d been away on a conference. It was before everything. He probably thought I was old enough to make those jokes with. But I’d never… I mean. There had never been anything serious.”

“He probably found it funny,” Marianne murmured stroking the pale hair on her arms. “His grown daughter and her beautiful, puritanical outrage.”

“How could I have known?” Héloïse whispered, before her face broke apart into a shy smile again. “That, with the right person, I would be just the same?”

With the right person. Marianne felt her stomach jump, the blood surging everywhere. “I think it’s normal,” she murmured, “to be conflicted when we recognise ourselves in our parents. Finding that we’re really just part of a pattern.”

Héloïse turned onto her side again, bringing her face close. “What’s your Dad like?”

Marianne’s face crumpled into a helpless groan. “Mortifying!”

“Really?” Héloïse said drily.

“Yes!” Marianne declared, her face buried in a pillow.

“He ever shag a nineteen year old in a darkroom?”

Marianne raised her head slowly, to gauge the temperature. But the face was still sweet, and loving; self-deprecating, if anything, as if it were a fault of her own that she were mocking, and not that of someone she had lost.

Marianne shrugged softly, with a small smile.

“My mother, maybe,” she replied, and left a moment for all the puzzle pieces to arrange themselves in that clever, blonde head. “I mean, they were both pretty young. And frustrated. And crazy about each other. So, it wouldn’t surprise me.”

“Model and photographer?” Héloïse asked, stroking her shoulder. “Raging together against the capitalist machine?”

“Photographer’s assistant, back then,” Marianne corrected, sternly. “And, yes,” she went on. “That is how I came to be. Dad always said, I was not planned, but wanted. That Mum told him with the words, ‘I don’t need you to hang around, but it might be fun if you did.’” Héloïse laughed. “Closest thing to a proposal they ever managed, as it turned out.”

Héloïse’s hand rose to cup her cheek. “You improbable wonder,” she said. There was just a moment of silence, in which their eyes met, skimming and shifting over one another for purchase, and then Héloïse’s mouth was on hers, soft and warm, and she was rolling them together again.

Marianne laughed, mouthing between kisses. “What’s this?”

Héloïse pulled back, considered, breathlessly. “Gratitude, I think,” she said. Before nodding, lowering, resuming. “Gratitude.”

The Otters sweatshirts came back from the printers.

“You should do the honours.” Sophie was looking green as Marianne handed her the boxcutter. “Don’t be nervous. They’ll be beautiful.”

And they were. In the school light blue, with an otter swimming in a circle around a netball on the back, a smaller, embroidered version as a crest on the front. “Oh, they came out well!” Sophie mumbled.

And that was all she said. She went and sat at her little desk in the corner, and adjusted the spreadsheet, and looked at her diary for the day, her pale skin as smooth as an egg.

“Sophie,” Marianne said softly. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” But Sophie’s face was a wasteland. “Maybe nothing. Do you mind if we talk about it when I know for sure?”

Marianne had nodded softly, began folding the sweatshirts back into the box, her eyes on her friend. Her best friend. When had that happened?

“There are extras,” Sophie said, frowning at the numbers on the screen.

“Yes,” Marianne nodded. “I bought them for you and me.”

There was suddenly a shine, just a little shine, to the pale face. “So cool.”

Marianne offered a smile. “I thought netball was demonstrably the worst game in the world.”

“And, therefore, cool, in a kitschy, ironic way. Did you get one for Héloïse?” Marianne nodded, tight-lipped. “You think she’ll want it?”

Marianne muttered, “Just in case.”

The team put them on during games that day, and the squeals of delight, the coos over the design took a full ten minutes of the practice.

“Okay, settle girls, come on. Tabards, please. Gemma, let’s have you on wing attack today. Switch with Isla.”

Jodie was standing alone, separated from the other children in the middle of the court, looking down at the sweatshirt, frowning.

“What’s wrong, Jodie?” Marianne asked.

“It’s baggy,” she said. “And too long.”

“You’ll grow into it,” Marianne said distractedly, trying to herd the game into being through sheer enthusiasm.

Two eyes flashed up to her, full of indignation. “I will never be this big,” Jodie told her icily.

Marianne regarded the little figure. And a nauseous concern oiled to the surface of her throat. “But you might be taller one day,” she said firmly. “And glad of the warmth. Come on.”

Marianne rarely went to the lower school, but when supervising the afternoon snack, she had begun noticing that Jodie never took her permitted biscuit now. She had registered how the girl’s energy always dipped sharply in the middle of the afternoon, how she was withdrawing herself from the other girls, but also from her new friendship with Hector and his rough-and-tumble chums.

“They do stupid things at break,” Jodie told her one day, when Marianne had pointedly asked about him. “Running after each other all the time.”

“But you like running,” Marianne prompted. “You’re good at it.”

And the eyes had flicked at her, uncertain. “Am I?”

“Very,” Marianne emphasised firmly. “You’re one of the fastest on the squad. You should do cross-country when you’re older. Talk to Miss Godard about it.”

And Jodie’s face had set in place. “No, thank you,” she said archly. “I don’t want to scar up my knees. Mummy thinks it’s better if I use her treadmill.”

“A treadmill?” Miss Blanchard repeated.

Marianne confirmed. “Every day before school.”

Miss Blanchard tapped her fingers unhappily. “And Henrietta knows about this?”

“As far as I can make out,” Marianne said, arms folded, “Henrietta insists.” There was a sad silence in the study. “I don’t _think_ there’s a disorder there,” Marianne went on. “Not yet. She isn’t hiding anything. But that may come later.”

“Thank you, Marianne,” Miss Blanchard replied softly. “I already have the matrons keeping an eye.” And part of Marianne’s heart broke like sliding sand. Already. How long had this been developing? she wondered. “I know what Henrietta will say, is the infuriating thing,” Miss Blanchard went on. “That it’s what Jodie wants, and she is just trying to help. Just trying to instil the necessary discipline.”

“ _Is_ it what Jodie wants?” Marianne asked. “I’ve never heard her talk about clothes, or designers, or fashion. Not once.”

“What does any eleven year old want, really?” Miss Blanchard rolled her eyes. “To fit. To belong. Ten years ago, it was all side braids and archery. Now… it’s makeup tutorials and influencers.” The headmistress shot Marianne a pointed glance. “You don’t have space in your camera club, do you?” Marianne hesitated for just long enough, and Miss Blanchard pounced. “She likes you, and respects you, and if she were to see alternatives…”

“I really don’t think she does,” Marianne muttered. “Like me, I mean. I’m quite hard on her.”

Miss Blanchard smiled. “Exactly,” she said. “Children sometimes know what they need. Recognise what they’re missing.”

Marianne realised that she was staring at her feet. “There’s already a waiting list for the club,” she said. “I’m not sure that it would be fair.”

“Oh, it wouldn’t. We would have to live with our consciences,” Miss Blanchard said airily, as if she already knew that she had won. “You and I.”

And then, Marianne was taking model club again. Another good deed, she thought. Rah rah, collegial spirit and all that. Héloïse was working late, so it did make sense, at least. A lot of marking to do.

“More than I can easily bring home,” she had said.

Home. Meaning Marianne’s flat. That had been a new development. And its arrival had sent Marianne away into the bathroom for a moment, and a quiet, happy sob on the loo.

Nigel really was suffering, as well. He had been off all his extra-curriculars for a week. Bad back. He had practically begged. “I’m finding it hard enough to coach the rugby,” he moaned, “and the doctor’s being a right bastard about that.”

Marianne had agreed readily, before wondering whether she ought to have done. And hating that she had wondered.

Because, model club was fun, Marianne reminded herself firmly. She enjoyed it. It was nice to be asked to do things that she enjoyed. Besides, her reputation had gone before her, and the assembled boarders all demanded music when they realised she would be supervising. So, feeling valued and vindicated, she had popped on Holst’s ‘Mars’ to set the tone, and spent the rest of the session hunting down martial music in her collection. Between that, and helping with the odd mishap, her time waiting for Héloïse was pleasantly filled.

One of the little boarders, Eric Fong, had done a tremendous job with his tiny squad of galactic commandos but, faced with the prospect of painting their eyes, each one smaller than a stitch of embroidery, the boy had burst into tears.

“I can’t!” he had declared. “I’ll ruin them all!”

So, of course, Marianne had volunteered to paint them for him after the session, if only to stem the child’s panicky crying. By the time Héloïse swanned in at nearly nine, the neat little crew of space soldiers were Marianne’s only company, intimidating her silently from the work mat as she tidied.

Héloïse took one look at the squad on the table, and pulled up a chair to examine them. “So small,” she had whispered admiringly, her chin on the desk. “Are these going away too?”

“Leave them out. I have to have a go at the lenses,” Marianne said gloomily. “Not tonight, though. I’m knackered.”

Héloïse looked round at her, as she put the chairs away. “You’ll have to get up early?” she asked, sadly.

“Maybe a little.”

Before Marianne had even finished her sentence, she heard the bottle of paint being shaken, and the brush being taken up.

“Héloïse,” Marianne said in surprise. “Do you even know…?”

But she watched in dumb surprise as Héloïse watered the paint, spun the tiny brush hairs into a pinpoint on the palette, and picked up a commando. “Only seems fair,” she murmured. “I’ve kept us late.”

Marianne watched, as Héloïse and her steady hands worked methodically and painstakingly through the little army.

“Have you done this before?” Marianne enquired, fascinated.

“Shush,” Héloïse replied. “Concentrating. Ten minutes.”

And she was as good as her word. Marianne watched in amazement as Héloïse washed the brush and reformed the bristles with her fingers. Volumes of you, she had said. That I did not even know to look for.

“God bless decaf coffee,” she said.

“Well,” Héloïse smiled shyly. “And bless my Grandpa Blanchard. He and I used to repaint his lead soldiers in the summer holidays when we went to stay. He’d strip the enamel beforehand, and we’d do them in different colours every year.” She looked very young suddenly, sitting on her hands and spinning on the little stool, with her too-long legs and her soft jumper. “We used to photograph them,” she said distantly. “In his rockery.”

“I’d like to see,” Marianne murmured.

“I think the pictures might be lost,” Héloïse muttered back. “They were going to duplicate the albums after the divorce, but I don’t know where anything is now.”

“We could look for them,” Marianne offered. “One weekend. Or over the holidays.”

“Maybe,” Héloïse said dismissively. “Of course, that would involve confessing ignorance to Mummy.” She looked up, and there was laughter in her eyes.

“Heaven forfend!”

“Speaking of your mother,” Marianne said, as they walked back past the classrooms, taking Héloïse’s hand unthinkingly, “she’s put me in a bit of a bind.”

“She’s good at that,” Héloïse confirmed pointedly, claiming the fingers, weaving her own between them in the dark.

“I don’t know what to do,” Marianne confessed. “She wants me to give Jodie a place in photography club. Bump her to the front of the queue.”

“She’s insisting?”

“No, she’s leaving it up to me. But she thinks it could be very good for Jodie.” They walked in silence for a few steps. Tucked close into Héloïse’s soft shoulder, Marianne found herself whispering. “And she’s right. Of course she’s right. But, it could be good for a lot of the other children too. The ones who actively wanted to join, for example. And why should I be pressured into bending the rules for that child, when so much is done for her already?” She paused, shook herself out of it. “Which is awful. And ungenerous of me.”

“It’s not you talking,” Héloïse told her quietly, squeezing her hand. “Is it? That’s not like you at all,” she said. “What does your instinct tell you to do?”

Marianne glanced at her in the dark. “To help,” she said.

“Then you should do that.”

“Really?” A slow nod of the fair head. “Funny. That’s not what I thought you’d say,” Marianne murmured.

“No? Well.” A little sheepish smile. “I’m working on a few things,” she said, swinging their arms. “Emulating some people I admire.” She let go of their hands to jump for the last beam, and the metal rang out loud and long.

That night, Héloïse dozed for ages, while Marianne stroked her back and shoulders, over and over, around and around, a soothing white noise of skin and intimacy. Her fingers had grown used to the texture of the ink by this time. It was just another part of the glorious whole, she thought, like the mole on the shoulder’s slope, the scar on the heel of the palm. They were elements of her adoration, itemised for safekeeping in the memory of her hands.

“You know it’s Valentine’s Day during half term?” Héloïse had murmured before she had nodded off. That scratchy, slightly hesitant voice, forever saying the most unexpected things. “What do you want to do?”

Marianne had smiled, her face warm. “You mean you haven’t planned?” she teased. “No rose petals, no sky writing, hot air balloons?”

“You want a surprise?” Héloïse asked, her face curiously alight.

Marianne had run her fingers through the messy hair. “I didn’t think Valentine’s Day would be your thing,” she murmured.

“I didn’t think surprises would be yours.”

Marianne had snuggled down, kissed the upturn of the nose. “A walk,” she said. “Chips and wine. And a swim.” Héloïse had strained her neck to return the kiss. “And one surprise.”

“One surprise _each_ ,” Héloïse said drowsily.

“Oh, all right,” Marianne allowed. She waited, until the lashes had drooped, and the strong mouth had relaxed, slightly parted. She leaned in close to the ear. “You are my favourite surprise,” she whispered. And the mouth had smiled, just a little, and the shoulders wriggled nearer.

The next morning, in the studio, Sophie was late in. She was never late. Marianne made their coffees, set up for the first class, waited patiently. She thought about texting, but held off, and held off, until at last, the studio door opened softly and the pale face appeared around it. Sophie was wearing her new Otters sweatshirt, and tracksuit bottoms, and an expression that was somehow both washed-out and wired. She came in, sat down on her stool without a word, and took up her coffee, slurping it in large, hungry mouthfuls.

“Tell me?” Marianne encouraged her.

Sophie emptied the coffee. And stared at the shiny bottom of the mug for a long time, the green glaze reflecting back onto the pallor of her tired skin. “You know,” she said at last, “how we said 99% effective and 98% effective was many percent effective?”

“Oh, Sophie,” Marianne murmured, already knowing.

There was a little grim smile, and one tear, hastily wiped. “Should have bought a fucking lottery ticket,” she said.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because who doesn't need some Holst to start the day right?:
> 
> [Now That's What I Call Atonal Postmodern Symphonic](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/3fPdiEQLH73sqSmaYFLYEP?si=bE3gE0IJRhid9Lp3ZFXPag)


	17. Most, Least and All

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNING: contains canon level descriptions of medical (pill at home) abortion.

“What is she going to do?”

Marianne clutched at the sink instinctively her eyes tracing halos of light in the bright steel. “It’s done,” she said. “Her referral was this morning. She’s been dealing with it on her own.”

Héloïse shifted, the rubber soles of her shoes grinding. She was uneasy. “And Miles?”

“Said it was her decision.”

The art block kitchen was suddenly too small, too resonant for the conversation it struggled to contain. The words pawed at the edges, threatening to bust out. “So, that’s it then?” Héloïse murmured. “It’s over?”

“Just the first bit,” Marianne replied. “There’s a second load of pills a couple of days later. They let you take them at home, now.”

“Over the weekend,” Héloïse said slowly and Marianne nodded. “But her parents…”

“Don’t know.”

“GPs,” Héloïse murmured.

“She wants to steer well clear until it’s all over.”

Héloïse was staring at nothing, chewing her thumb nail. “She should come to ours,” she said at last.

Slowly, Marianne looked up, trying not to betray the jolt in her chest that felt like joy.

Ours. Ours, open to friends. Ours, no longer somewhere that we huddled together like hibernating animals, but something unfolded and shared.

But Héloïse was completely preoccupied, unaware of what she had said, or that it might have been somehow momentous and new. “She doesn’t want to do it alone in that crummy little bedsit of hers,” she was muttering. “She should come over, and we can get in the towels and the hot water bottles and the ice cream and all the stupid films or whatever.”

“Are you sure?” Marianne breathed. “I mean,” she said snapping back into the moment, “I already offered. But I didn’t want to assume…”

Héloïse paused, lowered the thumb from her mouth, looked a little hurt. “That I’d want to be involved?”

Marianne balked at the upset, sought to rectify. “It just isn’t something that I thought you would have…” She hesitated, before two large and suddenly questioning eyes. “I don’t know what I’m saying,” Marianne confessed, her voice constricted in her chest. “I don’t know why that would matter. Yes. Thank you. I think that is exactly what we should all do.”

But Héloïse’s face had already stiffened. And Marianne, who had held her emotions in firm check until that moment, felt the flood gates open as she saw the concerned features spread apart with realisation.

“Marianne,” Héloïse said to her. “Have you…”

“Can we talk about this later?” she asked, through a smile that was a poor substitute for half an hour’s crying.

And Héloïse reached for the sleeve of her top, pulled her in close, held her in an embrace that was strong and serious. “Of course,” she whispered. And she rubbed Marianne’s back for a long moment, bound around her breathing like a conker casing, soft and hard and yielding and prickly all at once. They swayed together, unfallen, missed by winter.

“Marianne?”

Sophie’s head appeared around the open door, registered no surprise on seeing them in one another’s arms. When she spoke again her voice was a squashed monotone. “Jodie’s here,” she said. “Asking about a template.”

Marianne sorted herself out, smoothed down the front of her top, squeezed the meat of Héloïse’s thumb for a brief moment. Before striding out into the hallway. “Jodie! Thank you for coming.”

In the entrance, the girl’s face was watchful, like a field mouse, patiently observing a picnic. “Miss Blanchard said to ask you about a box camera,” she said, with an aristocratic civility.

“Yes, let’s get you caught up,” Marianne replied, making for the studio, trying to even out her voice. “We’re so pleased that you’re going to be able to join us.”

It was at that moment that Héloïse stepped out, from the same small kitchen that Marianne had just occupied, her hands in her pockets, a flustered expression on her usually grave face. She straightened her jumper over her sleeves, wiped unhappily at her lips.

And Jodie was observing her. No longer a mouse, but a magpie.

Héloïse made dinner, shuttling around Marianne’s kitchen, their kitchen, so easily that she might have been born to it. True, there had been little enough for her to learn, but what there was had been absorbed, deep as instinct.

Marianne watched from the discrete distance of the table, her apprehensive mind a swirled mess of conflicting times and places.

‘If it had been you,’ she had found herself thinking, ‘the impossibility of you, what would I have done? And yet, it was not. It could never have been. And what I did anyway was stay and stay. Seven years in a holding pattern. Waiting for change.’

“You don’t have to tell me, if you don’t want,” Héloïse said quietly, plating up. As if it were the telling that was hard. And not absolutely everything else.

Marianne smiled at her. “Can we have supper first?”

As they ate in silence, Héloïse’s thigh twitched constantly. Marianne let her own leg rest gently against it, trying to draw the nervous adrenaline out with contact, like poison from a bite.

Later, they lay in their clothes on the bed, facing one another. They weren’t touching. Not yet.

“Nick and I got pregnant when I was twenty-one,” Marianne murmured. “It was finals year. We weren’t anything serious.” She took a deep breath. “And he was wonderful. He said he would be there for me, whatever I decided. He said, however involved I wanted him to be, that would be fine by him. And when I decided that I wanted an abortion, he was with me one hundred percent. Literally, held my hand.” She couldn’t look at Héloïse. Not just yet. She didn’t want to see whatever was being broadcast from that beautiful, artless face. She wasn’t ready to know.

“You fell in love with him?” Héloïse asked her.

Marianne hesitated. “You have to understand,” she said softly. “I was seven, when my mother died. I don’t really remember my parents together. And in all the stories that I heard about them later, that’s what love was. That’s how you knew. Love was the one who stayed. The one who got stuck in, when they didn’t have to.” She raised her eyes, and she saw that Héloïse’s expression was open, and calm. There was no judgement, no jealousy at all. Marianne heard herself saying, “Dad thinks that if there had been the pressure of a baby, we would have realised sooner.”

Héloïse reached out a hand, and took a fold of Marianne’s jumper, where it wrinkled over her hip, and held it tight. “And what do you think?” she asked.

Marianne shrugged. “I used to believe,” she said, “that I would have weathered anything to make sure that a child of mine had two parents.” She reached her own hand to Héloïse’s elbow, and rested it there. “But now,” she whispered, “I know there wouldn’t have been two parents after all. Because I was sacrificing something of myself in staying. And I don’t know how to feel about that.”

And Héloïse pulled herself closer, kissed her on the forehead, kept her mouth pressed, as she tentatively suggested, “Relieved, maybe?”

Marianne nodded, rubbing her face into the rough-softness of the jumper. “And grateful,” she whispered. “Always grateful.”

Friday night, they stocked up.

“Will Miles be making an appearance?” Héloïse enquired. She was carrying their groceries around the little corner shop aisles, her arms cradling all the maxi pads the place had to offer, as Marianne balanced one of every Ben and Jerry’s flavour they had in stock on top.

“Sophie said he can’t make it,” she said quietly, aware suddenly of a sense of claustrophobia in the tiny store, with its high, masking shelves. A village of teachers. She thanked goodness for the hum of the freezers as she shot Héloïse a loaded glance. “And then she called him a name.”

“Oh.”

Marianne found that she was proud of Héloïse’s sudden, fuming protectiveness, the way her back had straightened as they marched to the checkout, her eyes hooded over with righteous contempt. Marianne waited until they were outside the shop to continue the conversation. “My guess is, Sophie doesn’t want a thing made of it,” she murmured. “They’re young. They have to get through the rest of the year. It’s difficult enough.”

“He should be made to see,” Héloïse declared hotly.

Marianne stopped in the road for a moment, her neck cold. “Let’s not talk about anyone being _made_ to do anything in this context, shall we?” she said softly, before she restarted. “It’s not a punishment.”

“No,” Héloïse agreed, staring, pale. “No. I’m sorry.”

She was quiet for the rest of the walk, violently chastened.

She was still sad, and sorry, when they got ready for bed later. Marianne had not needed to undress herself for weeks, and she stood, disarmed, as she watched Héloïse efficiently remove her own jumper, fold it over the back of the little corner chair, begin to unbutton her shirt, with her back turned. Marianne could see the shadow shape of the apple, shifting beneath the cotton.

“Are you tired?” she asked from the doorway. Héloïse’s hands stilled, but she did not turn. “It’s okay if you are,” Marianne said gently, lightly, hoping to reassure.

When Héloïse looked round, her face was such a mess of confusion and shame that Marianne had to go to her directly, slide her hands inside the open shirt front, pushing against the warm skin, holding her tight. “I’m just going to get it wrong again,” Héloïse whispered. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

Marianne hummed softly against the bare shoulder. “You couldn’t,” she murmured. “Not with this.” Placing warm kisses on the neck, where the hair grew soft and downy.

Héloïse had scoffed. “I can be _such_ a plank, sometimes.”

“You’re wonderful,” Marianne breathed. “My wonderful, opinionated, stubborn plank. With clever hands.”

They didn’t make it into the bed. Silly really: a matter of mere feet. But they had lifted together and pressed and pushed, and their legs had decided at the same moment that, here; here was good. And that it didn’t have to be soft to be gentle.

Saturday came, and Marianne had to restrain herself from asking Sophie whether she was okay every five minutes during class. One look into the usually inscrutable face, and she knew her young friend was terrified.

“Do you want to come and watch the match?” Marianne asked her. “We can all go home together, afterwards.”

Sophie appeared to consider. “Will Héloïse be there?”

Marianne nodded. “She’s bringing chocolate buttons.”

Sophie’s smile was grim. “She’d better wear the damn sweatshirt.”

Héloïse consented, dipping her head into the article in question, pulling it on as if it were a flak jacket; unpleasant, but necessary.

“You do know,” Marianne said drily as the blonde crown pushed out into the world, like a diver surfacing from a tar pit, “that you can take off your other jumper first. You don’t need both to support the team.”

Héloïse glared at her, neatened the waistband with deliberate fingers. “I am doing this,” she said firmly, “to support Sophie.”

And Marianne had kissed her; just quickly, because she couldn’t not, because the feeling had bloomed through her so suddenly, that it was kiss or cry out.

And Héloïse had looked slightly surprised, but not displeased. Her lips were gently parted, as Marianne took a hasty, apologetic step away.

“Technically we’re outside of school hours, right?” she mumbled guiltily. And Héloïse’s mouth tugged itself into a smile. And no more was said about it.

The match was engaging. The girls played well, and came away with a narrow victory. Every time Marianne glanced over to the Godard bench, she saw Sophie, impassively nursing a bag of buttons, and Héloïse jigging on her feet. A look of agonised restraint was painted over her taxed features, as she did not yell whatever expletive-laden advice was burdening her heart. Marianne had to resist a smile every time.

The sweatshirts were much admired by the attending parents. “I didn’t realise we were able to buy them as supporters,” Esme’s mother said as the game packed up. “I would have ordered more. My older girls are jealous!” She was looking over to where Héloïse and Sophie waited for Marianne on the path.

“Oh, those are the designer,” Marianne said, just loud enough to raise blushes, “and head cheerleader.”

“I see,” Mrs McKinnon chuckled as Héloïse glowered like a stormy Wednesday. “Special cases, then! We should get you some pom poms!”

Marianne heard a scoffed laugh from behind her, and did not need to look to know that it had come from Jodie.

Not today, she thought to herself. There would be a better moment. A better time. Not today.

By silent agreement, they all changed into pyjama bottoms and Otters sweatshirts when they got to Marianne’s flat, and made a nest of duvets and blankets and beanbags around the television.

“Have you taken them?” Marianne had asked.

“They’re in my cheeks,” Sophie had replied.

“Let’s get the kettle going, then,” Marianne had said.

“And fairy lights on,” Héloïse declared.

Sophie’s comfort films of choice, it turned out, were black and white classics. Genre was unimportant. “I find them soothing,” Sophie had mumbled. “I think it’s the weird acting.”

‘Kind Hearts and Coronets’ merged into ‘Casablanca’ as the hours ticked softly by.

Ten minutes into ‘Brief Encounter’, things started happening, and they were all grateful that the film was sufficiently wonderful to sustain the necessary pauses.

Sophie had snuggled in close to Marianne for a cuddle at one point, hot water bottle clutched close, and asked through steady sobs. “What’s… the piano piece… again?”

“Rachmaninoff,” Marianne had murmured back, her own eyes full. “Second piano concerto.”

“How fucking dare he?” Sophie demanded. “Who… gave him… the fucking right?”

Héloïse had never seen it before. They were all on the floor, their legs stretched out, and Héloïse had one of Marianne’s feet sandwiched between her own, angled around Sophie’s curled frame. She sat with her brimming eyes glued to the screen. Her expression, her reactions, were so intense, that Marianne found after a while, that she was really watching Héloïse watching the film.

“ _I do love you, so very much_ ,” the character of Alec had murmured at one point. “ _I love you with all my heart and soul_.” And Héloïse had shifted slightly, releasing her, chewing on her thumb.

“ _I want to die. If only I could die_ ,” Laura replied onscreen, and Marianne glanced sideways, over Sophie’s heavy head, to Héloïse’s streaming eyes.

“ _If you’d die, you’d forget me,_ ” Alec replied. “ _I want to be remembered._ ”

And the bare feet were back, firmly claiming Marianne’s, squeezing tight.

“Get a room,” Sophie had mumbled, and snuggled closer into the soft sweatshirt.

The evening snuck in without any of them noticing, and Héloïse volunteered to go to Benny’s, and Sophie took the opportunity to have a shower and a cry. Marianne called through the door, “You can have another dose of ibuprofen, if you want it.” And the door had opened, and a single cupped hand had emerged, waiting patiently for the pills to be dispensed, before retreating into the bathroom to be alone.

A few minutes later came the mournful confession, “Marianne? I’ve made a mess.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Marianne called back. She was sitting outside, prepped with a fresh hot water bottle. “You come and get comfy. I’ll handle it.”

“No. Where’s the spray?”

“Sophie, it’s fine.”

“No!”

“Let me. Please?”

The door opened. The pale little face looked, if possible, even paler than usual. Green. And Marianne remembered the tweezers, and Héloïse’s grazed palm. “Is this normal?” Sophie asked, shakily.

“Are you still on two pads an hour?” A little nod. “Then, that’s okay.” And the face crumpled just slightly, and Marianne went in to hold her tight. “I know,” she said, over and over. “I know. I know.”

Héloïse came back with their fish suppers, took one look at the situation, at the pallor and the ongoing hug. She put her own supper in the oven to keep warm, and fetched the bleach and a sponge from below the kitchen sink.

By the end of ‘All About Eve’, things had quietened down considerably.

“How are the cramps?” Marianne asked.

“Not so bad,” Sophie said, still clutching the hot water bottle to her belly. “Kind of normal period-y.”

“Do you feel shivery at all? Sick?”

“No,” Sophie said shaking her head slowly. “Just fucking knackered.” She struggled a little in the well of the beanbag to sit upright, to uncurl her legs from where they had atrophied under her. “Do you want me to go home?”

“God! No!” Marianne exclaimed. She and Héloïse had settled together with their backs against the bed, arms pressed. “Have you seen the time? No. Stay.”

Sophie did turn one, longing look towards the mattress and the pile of pillows. “But, I’m still…” she began. “I mean…”

“Would it make you more comfortable, if there were towels?” Marianne said gently, and Sophie nodded. Marianne stood up stiffly. “No worries. Let’s just find you a toothbrush. So you can feel a bit more human.”

Sophie sighed, her arms finally releasing the hot water bottle, as if the small rubber bladder had contained the full weight of the world, and she had clutched it to her gut unceasingly for the last seven hours straight. “I don’t think I’ve ever felt more human in my life,” she whispered.

She fell asleep almost instantly, curled around herself like a snail. Héloïse and Marianne retreated to the kitchen for a minute or two, held each other, and quietly checked each other over and over in small voices, unused to being in the shadows.

“Are you okay?”

“Yes, I think so. Are you?”

“Yes, I’m fine. You were wonderful. Thank you. Thank you.”

“Are you joking? You were brilliant.”

“You must be exhausted.”

“Aren’t you?”

They watched Sophie sleeping from the doorway, their arms around one another’s waists and shoulders.

“One of us should go in with her,” Marianne said quietly. “She might still develop a fever.”

“You go,” Héloïse said. “I’ll take the bean bag.”

“No,” Marianne protested, pulling her closer by her lower back, by the waist of her trousers. “You’re taller.” She pushed their foreheads together. “And you went to Benny’s. And cleaned.”

“She won’t want to wake up and see me,” Héloïse said with a self-deprecating smile.

“Hey.” Marianne took the bashful chin in her fingers, commanded the eyes. “She should be so lucky.” And she kissed her softly, lightly, as if there were enough weight to their kisses to wake a sleeper from a distance of twelve feet. And to her surprise, Héloïse pressed into her suddenly, backing her into the door jamb, lifting the hem of her jumper, just a little, stroking the bare skin at her waist with weary but determined hands.

“You amaze me,” she was whispering again. “Marianne. You amaze me.”

Héloïse did take the beanbag after all. There was no arguing with the woman, not silently anyway, and it turned out that she really did insist.

‘Gallant, after all,’ Marianne thought.

When Héloïse shifted in her sleep, there was a sound like heavy sighing, and Marianne would wake in a panic, terrified that it might be Sophie, and sepsis, and an impossible conversation with a mother she had never met.

But, no. Her eyes would flick open, and it would just be Héloïse and the beans, her sweatshirt riding up over her tummy, her fair head flopped to a different angle, or her arms flailing into a new, unsatisfactory position, the blanket uncovering first her toes, then her torso, then her toes again.

Marianne wanted to whisper to her, as they sometimes did during the night, unable to wait until the morning to see the eyes, the smile. But Héloïse was fighting so hard for whatever rest she was getting, and it didn’t seem fair; it didn’t seem right, to be impatient for her.

Then, at last, the shimmering eyes did slide open, and they must have caught the answering shine of Marianne’s. With a long hush of beans, Héloïse rolled sideways, and crawled towards her, padding on hands and knees.

“Are you all right?” she mouthed, when she was close enough.

Marianne nodded, reached out with a hand, and tucked the wavy hair behind the ear, wove the fingers through. “Do you want to swap?” Marianne whispered.

“I’m okay.”

“But, you’re awake.”

“So are you.”

Marianne watched her fingers, playing, the turn in her stomach it gave, the knot of hopeful pressure. “I think,” she whispered, “I’ve grown used to you.”

The face crinkled into a sleepy smile. “Romantic.”

Marianne checked on the little figure in the bed behind her. Sophie had shifted far into the wall, still cradling the hot water bottle in slackened arms, her mouth open, breathing steady. Marianne wriggled back, just a little, laid herself flat. “There’s space,” she whispered.

And Héloïse didn’t hesitate. She slid herself onto the bed’s edge, rolling carefully into Marianne’s arms, her head on her shoulder, letting herself be held fast, holding on in turn, one arm, one leg, as if they slept on the ledge of a cliff.

“Comfy?”

A hum of agreement.

“Think you can stay still?”

There was no reply.

And soon afterwards, under the enforced stillness, and the warm weight pinning her, Marianne felt herself drifting.

They woke the next morning, grain by painful grain, to find Sophie staring down at them. They lay on their narrow portion of the bed, still fastened together against the drop, clinging on. There was a little more colour in her cheeks, and all her glorious, sarcastic attitude was once again present and correct.

“Oh,” she said drily. “My first threesome.” And she crawled down the bed towards the bathroom. “Goody.” She abandoned the hot water bottle for the first time in eighteen hours, and left her friends to wince, and unwind, and shyly smile.

They all went for a walk, after a lazy, wary morning. “It will have to be around the school,” Sophie had said. “My family will be out in force everywhere else.”

There were still cramps, a little sickness, but that was to be expected. No worse, Sophie said, than a normal period. They walked three abreast around the bottom field, avoiding the little knots of boarders running around. It was a bright day, one of those late winter afternoons, clear and cold, where the world was considering spring as a real possibility. The earth seemed to be toying with the concept, sending up vast colonies of snowdrops into the pale sunshine to test its theories. The crocuses would be out soon, Héloïse promised, marking the edges of everything in brash yellows and purples. And then there would be daffodils, in grand clusters around the Chalk, and the low conker trees. She would stride ahead of Marianne and Sophie, enthused and energised, doubling back to meet them when her long legs took her too far from them for conversation.

“Is she always like this,” Sophie asked, “when she hasn’t slept?”

Marianne nodded, content to walk at Sophie’s sleepy pace. “High on life,” she confirmed.

And Sophie looked up into her face with serious eyes; scrutinising how Marianne watched, and waited, and tempered her calm fondness against the tug and pull of Héloïse’s rugged exuberance.

“Adorable,” she murmured.

The three of them were sitting in the Hive, when they first caught sight of Miles jogging towards them. Sophie, nestled between them, took a deep breath, and became very still, her eyes steadily watching his progress. When he was within easy earshot, and not before, she called.

“Not yet, Miles. I’m not ready.”

He stopped, panting. And collapsed over with his hands on his thighs. He looked miserable, gasped out, “Sophie, please. I’m sorry.” He shook his head, his dark curls falling over his young brow, ploughed into new, deep furrows. “It was a really big match.”

Sophie took a moment, before replying.

“You know, one day, not too long from now, you are going to look back, and be ashamed that those words ever entered your mind, let alone made it out of your mouth.” She murmured, “I hope I get to meet that person. I think I might like him.”

He had already stumbled halfway back towards the school buildings, looking wretched, by the time Héloïse groaned, unable to contain herself. She got to her feet, hesitating.

“Sophie, can I?” she asked, her voice slightly panicky.

“If you have to.”

“Miles!” she shouted. And she ran after him.

Marianne and Sophie watched, at how easily she caught up to the figure at a long, easy run. At how she began talking immediately, and animatedly, how she drew him in, guiding him away with her, back around the playing fields, as she reasoned, argued. At how he followed, his head sunk, replying from time to time, kicking angrily at the grass, knocking at his temples with the heels of his hands.

“She thinks she can fix everything, doesn’t she?” Sophie asked, leaning into Marianne’s shoulder with a sigh.

Marianne laughed softly. “She wouldn’t like to hear you say it. But. Yes.”

Sophie asked, “Is that what you love about her?”

And Marianne started, angled her head, to see the large brown eyes, the serious mouth, the genuine question, before letting her own gaze drift back to its true north; the tall, active shape; the runner, gardener, teacher.

“She is the best person I know,” Marianne replied, her voice catching. “Easily.”

“Is that a yes?” Sophie asked.

Marianne nodded silently. It was the most, and the least, and all she could do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Want to cry? If only for cathartic purposes? Then hurry on over to the Far from the Tree spotify playlist to get smacked with some Rach:
> 
> [Now That's What I Call Atonal Postmodern Symphonic](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/3fPdiEQLH73sqSmaYFLYEP?si=bE3gE0IJRhid9Lp3ZFXPag)


	18. Sweet, Wild Garden

Jodie’s camera was beautiful. Marianne had to admit it.

She had sat by in some awe, during their first session, as the girl had ignored the scissors and reached instead for the craft knife and safety ruler. Marianne had marvelled at how she had cut allowing for the thickness of the metal, how she had scored before bending, how she had applied the glue thinly, and evenly.

“Have you done this before, Jodie?” Marianne had asked, as the most precise little cardboard camera she had ever seen took gradual shape.

“No,” Jodie had said, confused. “You gave clear instructions. I’m just following them.”

The instructions had been given days ago, and rapidly, between classes. “You have a good memory,” Marianne complimented her.

“Yes,” Jodie had replied. “Mummy says I can take direction.”

She had applied the red plastic tape meticulously, snipping it to fit every corner. And the removable back, unlike every other camera in the club, including Héloïse’s, had needed no adjustment to fit snug and true.

“She’s crafty,” Sophie commented admiringly, as Marianne examined the camera in private.

“In oh so many ways,” Marianne replied. “I don’t quite understand that child.”

“She doesn’t want your understanding,” Sophie said. “She wants your allegiance.”

Marianne laughed. It did feel like that some days. She would find Jodie looking at her at odd moments, with a glowering concentration that, at times appeared to be admiring, and at others, bordered on jealousy.

“When did you get tall?” she asked Marianne, apropos of nothing, at the end of one art class.

“I had a big growth spurt when I was thirteen,” Marianne said. “Bit of a surprise, the day I woke up taller than my Dad.”

“Did you do anything?” Jodie asked her. Marianne had not understood. “Take vitamins? Do exercises or anything?”

“Jodie,” Marianne said with a long sigh. “It’s break time. Go and have a run around and stop worrying.”

“I’m not worried,” Jodie had replied, looking put out. “I’m interested.”

“No,” Marianne said. “No vitamins. No exercises. My mother was tall. My father is average. I could have gone either way. And there’s nothing you can do about it. So, go on.”

Jodie’s face had relaxed, hugely, and she had practically skipped to the studio door. She pulled up short as Héloïse appeared from the hallway.

“What can we do nothing about?” Héloïse was asking airily, before she had quite registered that Jodie was present.

“Growing tall,” Sophie said darkly.

“Oh,” Héloïse replied with a smile. “Tomato feeder in the welly boots. Worked for me. Did you miss the memo, Sophie?”

Sophie rolled her eyes, well aware that she was compact and perfect. “Clearly.”

But Marianne could see that Jodie’s face had darkened considerably, as she angled her way past Héloïse’s frame, and ran into the spring sunshine.

“What?” Héloïse had asked, registering Marianne’s annoyance.

“Not helpful, team,” she had replied, packing up the drawing inks as she nodded to Héloïse. “You. She-Ra. Make coffee.”

Marianne spotted, too, that Jodie had started jogging around the playing field during break times rather than playing with either the group of girls in her year, or what she thought of as the Hector group.

“Jogging like that, all on your own, all one pace,” Marianne said to her once, catching her on the way to netball practice, “I mean, at your age I would have found it a bit boring.”

“It _is_ boring,” Jodie said immediately.

“Oh,” Marianne replied, feigning surprise. “Are you doing it to get better at running, then? I know we talked about it. Because there are other things you could try, that wouldn’t take your whole break time.”

“Are you going to tell me to talk to Miss Godard again?” Jodie had asked sharply, so sharply that Marianne had paused.

“Not if you don’t want to,” she had replied carefully. “Cross country isn’t the only thing. Chasing games, manhunt, for example, would also be really good for it. And you enjoyed that. I remember. Does Hector still play?”

Jodie pouted for a moment, looked very much younger. “It was different in the holidays. Realer,” she confessed quietly, as they approached the netball court. “I wish I could have come back,” she said. “After that day.”

“But you’re here all the time,” Marianne pointed out. “You just need to join in.”

“I know,” Jodie replied plaintively, her voice dropping softer and softer as they drew near her team mates and other ears. “But it isn’t the same.”

“Can I help?” Héloïse had asked one day. She was accompanying Marianne to Miss Blanchard’s study for the penultimate photo shoot. It had been a rainy afternoon, and they had been supervising indoor break time together. They had stood on the sports hall balcony and watched Jodie run lap after lap of the gym, as the other children bounced onto crash mats around her and dribbled basketballs.

“I don’t know,” Marianne mumbled truthfully, not wanting to reveal Jodie’s reluctance, or risk hurting Héloïse’s feelings. “I don’t want to make a thing of it. She’s not being closed out of games, or anything. When she plays with other children, she’s well-liked, but she chooses to shut herself off.”

“Her writing has been getting smaller,” Héloïse commented.

“Is that a thing?”

“It can be.”

Marianne tried valiantly to keep her voice low over her rage. “How do you tackle bullying when the bully is an idea?”

Héloïse scoffed, before correcting darkly, “How do you tackle bullying, when the bully is a parent?”

Marianne had turned her head sharply. “Do you think that’s what’s going on?”

“Don’t you?”

“Yes,” Marianne confessed, glancing around herself. “I just worried I was being a bitch.”

“You’re not. You’re never,” Héloïse told her. They strolled cloaked in helpless silence. “It’s just nothing’s ever simple, is it?”

“Do you give media-savvy classes?” Marianne asked Miss Blanchard, as she flipped the film between exposures.

“For the pupils?” Miss Blanchard sighed. “Yes. Every year. And we have had talks at parents evenings. Internet safety. Grooming. Trolling. Online Bullying. It’s a jolly old time for everyone.”

“But on advertising?” Marianne asked. “On body positivity?”

“Yes, all that too.” Miss Blanchard gave a resigned chuckle. “Although these children airbrush themselves every single time they take a selfie. I hate to say it, but they’re all aware.”

“I don’t think they are,” Marianne countered. “I think they imagine that they’re the ones who are cheating, when they use those filters. That they’re using technology to imitate something that is real, and true, and out there in the world. Something that some of them will believe is attainable. If they only make the right choices. Right, five minutes again, as still as you can. And ready? Open.”

The minutes passed excruciatingly. Miss Blanchard sat in her armchair, completely still as promised, but withdrawn, as if something Marianne had said had made her shrink away into uncomfortable thought. When Marianne finally slid the pinhole slide over, a year might have passed in the peaceful office. And yet Miss Blanchard still did not move.

“If they only make the right sacrifices,” she said into her steepled fingers as if the conversation had been ongoing in the five minute’s silence. “Take the right direction.”

Marianne slipped the dark slide into place. But did not pack up the camera. “Exactly,” she said.

“You’re still worried?”

Marianne nodded and Miss Blanchard let out a rattling sigh.

“You know, I have been suggesting to Henrietta that she might do well as a weekly boarder.”

Marianne leapt on the idea. “I agree.”

“Let’s think about it after the half term break,” Miss Blanchard said. “I’ll do some more leaning. Perhaps for her final year.”

Marianne left the headmistress’s study, under no illusions that by next year, they might well be too late.

“When are you going to start the actual painting?” Sophie asked. They were in the art room, looking through the series of developed photographs. Misty faced, silver-eyed, mouth-smeared. Beautiful. The bubble curls looked like embers. Marianne had missed this process.

“I’ll do some studies over the half term,” she said quietly, “and do the painting next half and over the Easter break.”

“They should make the frame to include these,” Sophie said quietly. “They’re stunning.”

“That’s how I always used to exhibit them,” Marianne replied. “When I was working.”

“Where are they now?” Sophie asked her suddenly. “All your portraits?”

Marianne felt something like excitement pour through her. “I actually have no idea,” she confessed. “Sold. It’s strange to think that they could be anywhere.”

“What? All of them?” Sophie’s voice was heart-rending, her eyes traumatised.

“All except my first,” Marianne replied. “But that one was… different.” The confession did not seem to help. Sophie’s smooth face was still aghast. Marianne smiled. “You have to get used to the idea,” she said. “If you want to be an artist. You have to be able to send them out into the world.”

Sophie shook her head, firmly. “Not me,” she replied. “Illustration, thank you very much. _I_ keep the fucking originals.” And she reached for her sketch book, and clutched it protectively to her chest.

“When do I get to see that portfolio of yours?” Marianne asked her.

For the first time, Sophie appeared to consider. “I don’t know,” she said. “When do I get to see your first portrait?”

Marianne was about to refuse outright. But then she remembered the questioning fear and the holding, and the drained, exhausted body in the bed beside her, and knew all at once that she could not, would never deny Sophie anything. “I’ll have to get it from my Dad’s,” she said.

“After half term, then,” Sophie replied with a satisfied smile.

“Well,” Marianne demurred, thinking seriously and reluctantly about the realities of going to that distant, meaningless semi she could never call home. “Maybe after Easter.”

“You’re here for half term?” Marianne replied that she was. “Fucking yes!” Sophie exclaimed before restraining herself. “I mean, I have a small project. If you’re interested. For the three of us.”

“So. Tiny,” Héloïse breathed, turning the plastic model sheets in her hands, utterly fascinated.

Marianne inspected the box art for the little figurines.“Are they soldiers?” she asked, marvelling at the choice of potential weaponry with horrified fascination.

“Actually, they’re kick-ass nurses,” Sophie said, shyly, hanging back from the table. “They were supposed to be a thank you for you two nerds, and then I just thought… Well… I mean, there were three. So.”

“Of course we should have one each,” Marianne laughed. “We can build them this evening. Get in some beers. Paint them over the break. It will be a nice wind down.”

“Is it silly?” Sophie asked. “It’s fucking silly, isn’t it?”

“No,” Marianne replied with a fond laugh. “It’s cool.”

“Is it?”

“Of course, it’s cool,” Marianne said, holding up the box. “Look. It’s us. And we have wimples.”

Héloïse raised her head. “Can I have the flamethrower?” she asked. “I… Does anybody else want the flamethrower? Or can I? Have the flamethrower?”

Later that evening, as they fully unpacked the set, there was a tiny hiccup. In amongst the included paints was a tiny pot of something thick, viscous and red. ‘Altar Gore’ the label declared. Marianne had glanced up at Sophie, thinking to make a joke. But the little face that met hers was very still, and so pale as to be nearly green.

Marianne took up the paint pot, knowing instantly. “Optional,” she said.

Sophie nodded slowly. “Another time,” she murmured.

And Marianne had put the little container on the side by the acrylics cupboard. And quickly forgot all about it.

Half term.

Marianne woke.

And felt again the little spring of excitement. She thought it might have faded by now. But, every morning she was surprised by it anew; the deep thrill at the warmth in the bed next to her, at the solid, charged feeling of shared space.

At least she knew what it was, by now: anticipation.

Not for sex. Or, not just for sex. For everything else besides. For the first smile of the morning. The coy rub of the head into the pillow, the arm rising to run sleepy fingers through mussed hair. The first word, the sudden shift of weight, as she shunted nearer, took hold, rolled close. The smell of her skin in the soft, sleep-sticky angles of her; her neck, her elbows, under her breasts.

Some days, Héloïse would turn in the bed, and catch sight of Marianne. And it would be as if she suddenly remembered something wonderful; something wild and vulnerable they had done together. And she would fumble herself down into the bedsheets, until just her eyes, just her smiling eyes were showing. As if they weren’t both as bare as piglets under there. And she would laugh before saying anything at all, almost incredulous. That it was allowed. That it was all permitted, and right, and exactly as these things should be.

“It’s so easy,” she had said once. And she had sounded completely mystified. “So easy.”

“Does that worry you?” Marianne asked.

“Sometimes,” Héloïse replied. “Sometimes, I think I’m looking for the blemish that makes it real; the flaw in the weave. Without it, I feel like I’m climbing glass, like I don’t have a firm hold.”

Marianne had laughed, with the relief of recognition. “Do you need one?”

And Héloïse had nodded. “To understand,” she said, stroking the side of Marianne’s breast, as if the answer might be hidden there, in full softness and heat.

And Marianne had rolled, so that the heel of Héloïse’s palm had found her nipple, felt it harden and rise and demand. “Understanding is overrated,” she had murmured.

That particular morning, Héloïse slept next to her, one hand curled beneath her face, her lips parted. And Marianne found herself overcome with a new desire; for something lasting. For all this glory to be merely the sweet, wild garden, lying before a great house; one they had yet to open and explore and inhabit together. For it to be daunting, and strange, and exciting, and tough. Such an odd declaration blossomed in her chest. ‘I want them to be with you; all the difficult things. All the hard, human things; I want them to be ours, together.’

She laughed at herself. Too soon. Too soon to think of anything except this; lying in the light, with this beautiful puzzle-box; this strange, sharp tangle, plagued by a grudging instinct to do good, a desperate need to be better than herself. Whose smile sank her utterly.

She reached for her phone. Took a picture. Shared it immediately to Héloïse’s number, with the caption, ‘Behold my self-restraint.’ And waited. Waited until the eyelashes pressed and parted, and the warm breath caught behind the funny, scooped nose, and she rolled and unfurled, her arms opening.

Marianne wondered suddenly, ‘How much of this would survive, if it were not for daily exercise? If we could not reach and find, desire and sate, without thinking? What if,’ she wondered, ‘there is no house, beyond the flowers?’ Just another field, rough and empty, too wide to see the far limit, to see anything at all, except a white horizon.

Marianne checked herself.

Too soon. Too soon to worry. Too soon to hope. Enjoy the garden, while you can.

Marianne leaned, kissed the smooth forehead, let the searching hands find her hair and weave themselves through.

“Good morning,” she whispered. Watched the eyes open, the memory of something wonderful and defenceless swamp the sleepy face. The dip, the smile, the need. This. More of this, please. Marianne smiled in return. “Can I say it, yet?” she asked.

Héloïse groaned. “If you like.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, go on.”

Marianne pressed her nose under Héloïse’s ear, and nudged, and breathed. Before flicking her tongue against the skin, and laughing. “Happy Valentine’s Day,” she whispered.

Their walk took them over the water meadows, up the hill on full bellies and tired legs.

“You were quiet today,” Héloïse commented. It was neither critique, nor praise. Marianne had learned from experience how Héloïse responded to the sound of her. It was crude, and completely beautiful.

“Morning sex,” she replied smiling. “Got to keep something in the tank.”

“What for?” Héloïse asked laughing, kicking her feet through the young grass like a child. “It’s the holidays.”

Marianne ran to catch up, shouldered into her. “For evening sex,” she answered.

And Héloïse laughed, and lunged for her, pulled her close. “Oh, I see!” Minding the swing of the wine bottle, of the takeaway. “I see!”

They sat on the slope of grass, where they had stopped together on their first walk up here, Marianne remembered. On the bank with the tree. Where they had dawdled on the hilltop, and talked about loyalty. And Nick. And metamorphosis.

And now, they ate chips, their bodies pressed so close in the spring afternoon, that they might have been one plant, knitted together by the root, surrounded by crocuses and the song of the wind. And Marianne’s fingers still just barely carried the scent of Héloïse. And that was somehow worth more than Ovid, or Kafka, or any of them. Because how could any of them have understood this?

She snuck a glance at her. Crowned by sunlight. Her collar open as the weather warmed. A smear of grease by her mouth. Marianne licked her own thumb with a chuckle, and reached, and wiped. And Héloïse pretended to flinch, and grumble, until she caught the thumb between her lips, below the knuckle, and would not let it go again. Would not let it go, until Marianne offered to replace it with the final chip; which turned out to be an acceptable compromise.

“Why are there not sonnets about this?” Marianne asked, as Héloïse shook the salt out onto the grass.

Héloïse squinted at her. “About what?”

“Ordinary ways of… being.” She had wanted to say, ‘Of loving’. But it was too soon, and too much, even though it was exactly what she meant, and precisely how she felt. And she began to wonder why she still stopped herself, when it was honest and real. And if not today, then when?

“There must be hundreds,” Héloïse replied with a shrug. “Written by soppy people like us. Thinking they’re special.”

Marianne tipped her head. “Aren’t we?” she asked. “Just a little bit?”

Héloïse shook her head. “No. Not special at all,” she replied firmly wiping her hands on the grass and then on her trousers. “Quite normal. Very boring. Clumsy from the outside. Positively lumpen.”

And then she reached for Marianne, and tipped her back onto the bank, and kissed her, laughingly. And Marianne tried to hide the shock of want which had leapt from her mouth down her entire frame. But equally she did not want to hide at all. Something about the sky and the quiet needed filling up, with this; with them. And she brushed over the soft curve of Heloise’s hip, and tugged, just a little. Héloïse smiled steadily and gazed down, knowing. And suddenly they didn’t have to. Acknowledging the desire was enough.

In the Eden of the world, where there was only us, and no time to speak of, and no shame at all, here is another place. Where we would balance together on the earth and leave it richer. And there, too. And everywhere else besides.

And Héloïse smiled at her, whispering, “Isn’t it wonderful?”

They debated over where to drink the wine. They weren’t ready for it on the hill, they found. And they didn’t want to make the cows jealous in the meadow below. So the bottle came with them through the graveyard and into the school.

“Chapel gardens?” Marianne suggested.

“Same as last time?”

“Last time was nice.”

Héloïse smiled just slightly. “After swimming?”

“Better than before, I think.”

“You’re sure?”

They wended their way, with no further discussion, through the empty grounds. Héloïse took the wine, and ran away to stick it in the water butt in preparation, Marianne watching the flapping of her boots as she sprinted off. She didn’t attempt to follow. Héloïse had been so loveable in her eagerness, so pleased to be useful. And Marianne had wondered for a while if she mightn’t miss her runs just a little.

Maybe that would be the sign, she thought suddenly, that things were changing. Settling softly. When Héloïse chose to leave their coiled nest of a morning, abandoning the warm body which wanted her more than the air it breathed, to run up a hill before work.

“Honeymoons end,” she murmured to herself, in acknowledgement. That it would. That it must.

But not yet. Oh, please not yet.

Héloïse caught up with her at the entrance to the swimming pool, brandishing the keyring.

“Okay,” she said, before she unlocked the door, breathless and glowing in the afternoon sun. “This is with maternal blessing, on the following conditions: no hanky; no panky; and definitely no shenanigans. There are windows. And other people with access.”

Marianne laughed. “I think I can resist you for a little while.”

“I won’t be wearing much,” Héloïse warned, cocking her eyebrows, unlocking the door with a flourish. “And, I have it on good authority that I’m quite pretty.”

“Always sounds better coming from someone else,” Marianne chided her, entering the darkened building with a swagger. She could already smell the chlorine. And that smell would never be the same for her, she thought; not since that day, that first day back. It had never been the same.

“Really?” Héloïse asked, closing the door behind them. “You say it then.”

“You’re quite pretty,” Marianne obliged, her hands deep in her pockets. And when she turned, she caught something rare, breathless and hopeful on Héloïse’s face. She was standing by the door, halfway through locking them in, frozen in place. “What?” Marianne asked.

“You don’t often say that to me,” Héloïse replied. “I mean, you tell me that I’m hot, but, you’re usually teasing, and…”

“You’re pretty, Héloïse,” Marianne said, quickly, quietly. “Absurdly. Overwhelmingly.”

Héloïse’s head dropped. “Now, you’re joking again.”

“I’m not,” Marianne insisted. “I only don’t say it, because I would be saying it all the time. And you still wouldn’t believe me. Anyway, I was brought up having it hammered into me that looks weren’t the most important thing. About a person.”

“What is?” Héloïse asked walking over to her, standing too close in the darkened hallway. And they had been given one instruction. But, God, she smelled of the sky.

“Character,” Marianne replied softly. “Sincerity. Honesty. Kindness.”

“I’m not kind,” Héloïse said gruffly.

“Not to yourself,” Marianne replied. “No. You’re bloody not.”

Héloïse smiled at her. “I’m trying,” she whispered.

Marianne laughed, caught in a sudden storm of joy. “And anyway, what about you? You never tell me.”

“I can’t,” Héloïse said softly. “There aren’t the right words.”

“Try.”

And Héloïse whispered, “‘As the sweet apple blushes on the end of the bough, the very end of the bough which the gatherers missed, nay, missed not, but could not reach.’” And she raised her hands. And brushed her thumbs over Marianne’s cheekbones, all the way to her ears.

“Ovid?” Marianne asked, her eyelids fluttering with her voice.

Héloïse did not answer. Instead, she murmured. “I worried that I might not reach you, you know. I still worry, sometimes.”

Marianne wanted to tell her that she needn’t worry. That she needn’t ever worry. That Marianne felt, to her bones’ marrow, that she had been reached, gathered, savoured.

But instead, she murmured, “Would kissing you come under hanky, panky, or shenanigans, do you think? Because,” she murmured on, nuzzling slightly into the cradling palms, “I worry that the point of no return approaches.”

And the hands dropped with a guilty laugh. “At the confluence of all three,” Héloïse confirmed. “The Venn diagram’s white hot centre of prohibition.”

“Best not tempt fate, in that case,” Marianne suggested.

“Best not.” Héloïse walked around her to the changing room. She glanced over her shoulder to where Marianne was sitting herself down on the steps up to the balcony, hugging her knees. “Not coming?”

“You go first,” Marianne said with a smile. And then, with a happy shrug, she felt her face warm, blushing. Like the skin of an apple. “I don’t trust myself,” she whispered, not joking in the least. “You’re too beautiful.”

And Héloïse grasped for her hand, pulled her upright, and tugged her, laughing, through to the changing rooms. And in the space between the double sets of doors, they kissed one another under the blinking automatic light, so quickly, joyfully, that it felt as innocent and daring as rolling down a hill, or swinging from forbidden tree branches. And they broke with the same spark of thrilled guilt that wiped hastily at grass stains, and lost books in summer hedges, down among the sticky weed, and dock leaves.

They swam together.

And it was wonderful.

The sun setting in the pale sky outside. Crossing the shapes of one another, lane by lane. Cleaving through clear water, watching the familiar limbs, arc and scoop by, bodies bound unnaturally tight in swimsuits.

Then, they leaned arms on the pool’s edge, watching the fading sky, laughing and gasping and talking in murmurs, as the world beyond the windows faded into darkness. Allowing their feet to touch below the water’s surface. Because who would see? And who could object?

Was love really clumsy, when seen from the outside?

Marianne could not believe so. Not when it was innocent. She smiled at the idea of the word. She did not mean chaste. She certainly did not mean that. Only blameless. A clean, healthy lust, that was free from guilt; from deceit; from ill intention. Such a thing could never be ugly, she thought. Not to anyone who had loved themselves, and been loved honestly.

Not clumsy, then. More remote and strange. Like hearing a poem in a foreign language, she thought. Not for me, the ear would say, but there is pretty music there for someone, and joy, no doubt. So, take it, if it is meant for you. Take it and be as happy as you can.

They hauled themselves out, when the light was all but gone, and their own reflections shone brighter in the glass than the world beyond it. They stripped hastily, showered. Kissed. Because how could they not, quite honestly? What did anyone expect? And there was no-one. No-one to mind. And they dressed, reluctantly. Because they respected the boundary, even as they clambered the fence.

And later they walked to the chapel gardens arm in arm, bound together by the smell of the pool, by their wet hair, and a shared weariness.

“So,” Héloïse murmured, “you know how we said one surprise each?”

“Yes,” Marianne said, her belly already fluttering.

“And you know how those origami roses you made were yours for me?”

And with a soft feeling, like the slide of melting butter, Marianne remembered the flushed face, and the raised eyes and the careful hands. The hunt for a vase. And then, the sudden heated launch. “Yes.”

“Well,” Héloïse said, pushing open the door in the wall, “I’m sorry you can’t keep this always, but…”

Marianne had to stop for a moment, just to stare, to let herself be moved. The chapel gardens were ablaze. There were fairy lights, strung through the branches of every tree, along the eaves of the greenhouse, through the raspberry canes and atop the flint wall. The grass glowed soft and gold in their shifting light, and the apple trees shimmered like resting swarms of fireflies, as a gentle wind rustled the baby, budding leaves. There was a picnic blanket, surrounded by electric candles.

“Héloïse,” Marianne sighed, and the name was both question and answer.

“Do you like it?” Shy. Solid. Uncertain. Marianne reached for her. Kissed her, slowly and properly and unapologetically, so that she would know, so that she might feel, right down, all through her gentle poetry and into her gorgeous animal gut, how perfect it was.

“Not special at all,” she muttered drily, between their kisses. “Quite normal!” And Héloïse began to laugh with her. “ _Very_ boring!”

They lay on the blanket, with the space heater dragged from the potting shed, the walls of the garden shielding them from the worst of the chill as the night fell in earnest. They sipped at the wine, drank slowly, talked softly. About all sorts of things. Things that they had learned, in each of their nearly thirty years, and not yet thought to mention. Sewing, cello, sailing, toffee-making. Gardening.

“They don’t grow like this naturally,” Héloïse was saying, her hand running in lazy circles through Marianne’s hair. “The apple trees. It’s called espalier. You have to train them, from when they’re tiny, to grow against the wall like that, with their branches flat and straight and regimented. It’s an art.”

Marianne looked at the magical surroundings. “I find it kind of beautiful.”

“Really?” Héloïse glanced about her, at the ledger lines of leaves and branches, wired up and evened out. “I always found it sad.”

Marianne searched her face, upturned in the warm electric haze, traced the bottom lip with her thumb. “Why do it?”

“You see how the walls behind are painted white?” Héloïse asked. “The colour absorbs the heat of the sun throughout the day, and warms the fruit at night. Makes them ripen better. Good for colder climates.”

“But you’d prefer them weird? And wild? And barren?” Marianne prompted. “Sour and free?”

Héloïse smiled down, the weaving locks of dirty blonde casting her face in new, intimate shadow.

“No,” she said at last, her fingers flexing into Marianne’ scalp. “No. There’s room in the world for both, I think.”

“I hope so,” Marianne whispered.

And the wine was finished, and their need to be closer was becoming unbearable. And they could have gone home, but the garden was so beautiful, and the night was mild, and it seemed such a pity. So, they kissed, and rolled, and then found themselves falling into steps they knew well, and understood. And Héloïse’s hand found its way by instinct, over and over, hovering above the fly of Marianne’s trousers, drawing back, until Marianne rolled her hips, just a little, just for contact, just for something to break the intolerable stalemate.

And Héloïse almost barked with want, her fingers jerking away. “You know I would?” she whispered, between kisses. “You do know I would, don’t you?”

“Yes.”

“But we should stop,” she murmured, not even slightly stopping the slow, deliberate workings of her mouth. “We should stop, if we’re going to.”

“Yes. Yes.”

Thank God Miss Blanchard’s bicycle had a squeaky wheel. They heard her approach from across the quad, a five full seconds before the bump at the gate. And they sat up, and wiped mouths, and smoothed hair, and tried so hard, so hard, not to laugh, not to hide too much, and give themselves away.

Miss Blanchard’s face, when it appeared, was tired. But suddenly charmed in spite of itself at the sight of the garden. She gazed, blinking slowly, from behind the safe barrier of the bike frame. And at the two of them. Sitting rumpled on a blanket, tipsy in the dark, lit by fairy lights, and candles, and the rich, red glow of the heater, and each other’s burning faces.

She smiled at them both. Just a little. Patted the handlebars with fretting hands.

“Wellingtons, Héloïse?”

And Héloïse, sheepish, waggled her boots back and forth off the edge of the blanket. “Gallant _and_ glamorous.”

Miss Blanchard took in the shape of her child, nodded around the garden, beginning to push away along the path. “And is this where all my batteries went?”

Héloïse smiled, caught out, and not seeming to mind at all. “Sorry, Mummy.”

Her mother called over her shoulder. “Just put some of them back, will you?”

“Thank you, Mummy.”

“Good night. You two.”

They waited, until the sound of the wheel was gone, before sighing with laughter, and kissing again, relieved, reassured, invigorated. “Shall we go home?” Héloïse murmured.

Marianne gasped the ‘yes’ that had been waiting in her throat for ages. But then, she cast her eyes around them, at their tiny, shivering heaven of light. And found she did not want to go at all. Even though the flat was warm, and near, and there were lights there too, strung above the bed.

“Should we tidy up?” she asked. And found that she was close to tears; not really knowing why. “It just seems such a shame.”

Héloïse looked confused for a moment, before leaping to her feet. Reaching for her pocket. “Wait,” she said. “I can take a photo with this, can’t I?”

And she stood back from the rug, took out her phone as Marianne laughed at her. And then she frowned. And pressed at the screen. And paused, her soft surprise lit in dazzling blue. She turned the handset around. To show Marianne’s picture of her from that morning; sleeping in a tumble of sheets, and limbs, and blonde tresses; bare, unfathomably beautiful. ‘Behold my self restraint,’ Marianne had written. It had not lasted long. It had not needed to.

“Is this,” Héloïse asked, stumbling, “how I look when… when you want me?”

Marianne stood. Went to her. Took her arms in her hands.

“I want you all the time,” she whispered, insistent. “Héloïse. You must. You must know that. I…”

And she should have said it. That would have been the time. Into the confusion, the slight wrinkle of self doubt. That would have been the right time.

But she didn’t. And instead they went around the garden, and turned off all the strings of lights together. One by one.


	19. Quo declinavit dilectus tuus?

Miss Blanchard’s portrait was coming together. The composition had formed effortlessly from the moment Marianne put pencil to paper, as if it had been waiting in the white mist, arms outstretched. The figure of the headmistress would sit in the wingback armchair, close by the fire, the imposing angles of the headmaster’s desk abandoned in the background, empty, and somewhat obsolete.

‘Like a tomb,’ Marianne thought.

She was half tempted to paint scattered cigarette butts around its base, and the yew tree overhanging, peppered with pretty, toxic fruit. But then, she remembered she was being paid, and reverted to shaping the familiar environs of the office, unadorned by fantasy.

That half term, she worked on the canvas in the light studio. Héloïse and Sophie kept her company, sitting quietly, focusing on their models, or on their own work while the layers of paint dried.

Sophie was still, calm, forever sketching something in her work book. “For the portfolio,” she said, which was all Marianne needed to hear to know that she would see it when Sophie was ready. Or when the ashes of civilisation wafted in the soft winds of oblivion. Whichever came sooner.

Héloïse had been distracted, by comparison, dashing out with her buzzing phone, in between long, silent bouts of reading and making notes on a whole pile of education text books. And Marianne had to be very disciplined about not just watching her, as she worked, as she fussed and forged off and back. There was something about how she curled her left hand around her writing, careful not to smudge, that made Marianne want to cry and dance all at once.

Some days, she truly felt she was sketching the wrong sitter. Her eyes would flick from the canvas, not to her reference photos, but to the concentrated sage eyes, the budded mouth, the hair, messily drawn into a clip, tendrils hanging. The soft jumper, worn without a shirt, because it was the holidays.

As Marianne painted, she saw more and more about mother and child that was alike. Not in their features particularly. Héloïse was very much her father’s daughter in that respect. But in their mannerisms. The way they held their hands, tilted their heads, arched their eyebrows when they were reading, or challenged. The flinch when the phone rang unexpectedly. The sigh on returning to a seat, took up an open page. And their colouring, of course. Dirty blonde hair. Dark eyebrows. Pretty and startling.

Marianne had put ‘Flos Campi’ on the studio speakers one afternoon, when the light, pale rain that heralded spring was spattering in fitful bursts on the long French windows.

“Why does it sound like this?” Sophie had asked.

“Like?” Marianne had asked, barely looking up from her painting.

“I don’t know,” Sophie had replied, considering the sound. “So mysterious, sometimes. And then so right. Like the beginning, I didn’t understand.”

Marianne said distantly, “It starts bitonal. The duet, the viola and the oboe; they’re playing in different keys; as if they’re talking at cross purposes. And then it all comes together at some points and falls apart at others, with the words in the poem.”

“What poem?” Sophie said. “There aren’t any words.”

“It’s all based on the ‘Song of Solomon’,” she said.

“Fulcite me floribus stipate me malis quia amore langueo,” Héloïse quoted, her voice sounding almost shy.

And Marianne, bathed deep in her work, had laughed.

Because of course Héloïse would know it by heart. Because it was delightful and strange in all the ways that only Héloïse could be both delightful and strange without realising. And part of Marianne recognised that maybe laughing without explanation was the wrong thing. But it was a small part of her; a nervous social instinct that never really troubled her when she painted. In fact, the more she worked, the more she was able to hold the world beyond the canvas at a safe distance, sunk in an absorbed concentration that she realised she had not felt for years, perhaps since art school; a heightened sanctuary of seeing, missed for so long that she had forgotten even to mourn it.

Hours might have passed, by the time she at last glanced up from her painting, to see Héloïse staring at her, eyes fixed like darts. Her face, her lovely face had reverted to its empty cask from before, before everything between them had started. Confused, Marianne raised her eyebrows into a question she could not yet voice, and Héloïse’s expression immediately broke open, in a flood of horrified self-awareness.

“What was that?” Marianne asked her softly, when Sophie left the room for a moment.

“I don’t know,” Héloïse whispered, her eyes forlorn. “I’ve been kind of all over the… Do you,” and now she was begging almost, “ever look at me like that?”

Marianne felt the tiny pang of something sharp in the question. She knew how focused she became when she worked. “Of course,” she replied, smiling, hoping that it was true.

She gazed into the strange expression, asked, “Have you really never seen me paint before?” And the expression dipped. The head shook, just a little. “Funny” she murmured. “It’s such a big part of who I am.” And realised too late, in the stifled lowering of the eyes, that again, this had been the wrong thing. She tried to change the subject. “Who keeps calling?” she asked. But Héloïse ignored the question.

“Are you always,” she demanded, glancing at the sketches of her mother, blurred and bonny, “so intense, like that?”

“I suppose so.”

A frown. “Do you think that you’ll ever paint me?”

Marianne’s answer was automatic and delighted. “I would love to,” she breathed, and Héloïse seemed to relax. But then she continued guilelessly. “Honestly, though, it feels as if I’m painting you now. The more I look, the more similarities I see.”

And Héloïse, for the very first time, snapped at her. “Look harder, then.”

Whatever openness had entered the expression had immediately slammed shut, hard, and Marianne could say nothing in reply at all. Not before Sophie’s return, and the demand of a sudden truce.

And Héloïse worked in a furious silence for the rest of the day, her phone close to her elbow.

She came and found Marianne in the dark room later that evening; knocked, just as Marianne was switching on the safelight.

Marianne stuck out her head into the corridor in a temper. “I’m just starting something,” she said. “So, if you’re coming in, you’ll have to stay.”

And the green eyes hesitated, before shuffling inside the cramped space, and standing uncomfortably on one hip, exuding heat and apology.

She switched to the safelight, and began working, trying to ignore the fidgeting pillar of worry by the door, the smell of wool. She laid out the cube net she had pre-made on the desk, with the tinfoil pinhole covered with a hinged black mask. She checked the light-seal was good on it, holding it up to the red glare, before tacking a single sheet of paper film onto one of the planes, and then carefully folding, glueing, taping.

“How can you do that when you can barely see?” Héloïse asked.

“Because I have done it hundreds of times before,” Marianne replied softly.

“For hundreds of models?” Héloïse asked, shifting her weight against her hands where she leaned on them.

Marianne hesitated. “Dozens, certainly,” she replied, her tone careful.

Héloïse was staring at her shoes, shifting, as if the thoughts were coming into her mind in hammer blows, and she didn’t know how to articulate them without movement, without dodging the impact. “Would you make one for me?” she asked. “If I wanted you to?”

Marianne turned to the beautiful, skulking shape, picked out in startling red and black, felt suddenly drained. The plea was a test, she knew, one that it was dangerous even to attempt passing because, then, there would simply be another, and another.

“We _are_ making them,” Marianne said. “Every Wednesday afternoon. And you are more than welcome to join in properly, if you choose.”

Héloïse huffed slightly. “I don’t want it to be a part of that,” she muttered. “I want it to be just us.”

Marianne felt that same unfamiliar irritability rise within her. “I am not comfortable,” she said, as softly as she could, “with you being possessive over this, Héloïse. Not this. This is mine.”

And the figure sagged. “Okay,” it said. And the red gleam of the eyes did not rise again.

Marianne wheeled back to her work. “I’m nearly done,” she muttered. “Give me ten more minutes, and we can go home.”

“I think,” Héloïse said, and her voice was dimmed, “I might go to Dad’s tonight.” No suggestion that Marianne would join her. No hint that she should even ask. It was Marianne’s turn to work in furious silence.

“Marianne?” Héloïse asked at length into the laden air. “Would that be all right?”

The tone was once again completely changed; hurt this time, uncertain. And Marianne was exhausted.

“I’d rather that you didn’t,” she said shortly. “I’d rather you came to mine. I’d rather that we talked. I’d rather we… But if that’s what you need, then that’s what you’d better do.”

Héloïse’s reply nearly broke her. “Thank you,” she said, and her voice was wrinkled and so very small.

Marianne wiped the glue roughly from her fingers, took the face in her hands, examined it in the deep brown shadows, purple and black and aching. She heard Héloïse’s voice without seeing the mouth move. “Don’t ask me what it is,” she said. “Because I don’t know.”

“Okay,” Marianne whispered.

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay.”

They kissed goodbye at Marianne’s front door, in a waft of chilly rain, and the sweep of passing cars.

“I’m sorry,” Héloïse said again.

“I wish you wouldn’t say that,” Marianne replied, squeezing the one hand she could reach. “It doesn’t mean much, until we know what you’re apologising for.”

“For hurting you,” Héloïse replied, with a frown.

“But we’re just going to end up hurting each other again,” Marianne murmured. “Aren’t we? Until we see what’s underneath.”

Héloïse gripped Marianne’s hand in the rain until her own knuckles blazed blue in the cold, and until Marianne’s fingers throbbed. “I just need some time,” Héloïse muttered. Marianne leaned over, kissed her wrinkled forehead, blinking, breathing in the clean scent. She found she was having to fight every urge to pull her in close, to drag her up the stairs, to try to make it all better as she had before, with her mouth and hands, with her body. To apply herself blindly like a poultice. But it would not have helped. If the wound were deep enough, it might even have made things worse.

“I’ll see you in the morning then,” she replied, through a jaw gripped tight. She turned, walked up to her front door, her insides yelling as she tried so hard, so hard, to do what was best. “Why don’t you go for a run tomorrow?” she suggested, over her shoulder. “It might clear your mind a bit.”

She saw, as she turned to close the door, that Héloïse stood exactly where she had left her, as if paralysed.

Marianne’s phone lit up at two in the morning.

A scratched halting voice asking, “Can I come up?”

Héloïse, standing in the dark, in the rain. With her photograph album in one hand.

And Florence peeping out of her jacket sleeve.

“Tell me,” Marianne insisted, as the kettle boiled. Tea, before anything else.

“I think I might be concocting reasons,” Héloïse replied, her voice washed out and white, as if she had been crying, hour after hour. “To be wary of this. To pull back. Excuses. It’s not conscious. I don’t want you to think that it’s conscious.”

“You want to break up with me?” Marianne asked, confident enough in the answer to ask the question directly. This was not the way things ended, she thought, at Marianne’s door at two a.m., with teddy bear and baby photos in tow.

But she was totally unprepared for the horror in the eyes; the shock. “No!” Héloïse exclaimed, so suddenly that the word almost choked her, all remaining colour fleeing her cheeks. She sounded panicked. “No. You… God. No. Please.”

“It’s okay,” Marianne was saying, reaching, stroking one arm. “It’s okay. Just, tell me.”

Héloïse took a moment to calm down, leaning into Marianne’s touch. “Do you remember,” she asked haltingly, “last term? When I went to Cambridge?”

It seemed like another age. How long had it really been? A little over four months. How deep they had fallen in that time. Grave deep. Turned together inextricably under the earth, beyond reaching, beyond helping. Yes. Marianne remembered.

“You went to see some friends,” she murmured.

Héloïse nodded into the neck of her jumper. “One of them,” she mumbled, “was my old director of studies.”

Marianne’s mind suddenly lifted, as if a hand had wiped through the misty condensation of lingering sleep. The plan. The plan she’d had for years. “You want to finish your MA,” Marianne stated.

“No,” Héloïse said softly. “I want to transfer. To the Faculty of Education. Do my PGCE. He’s been helping me.”

Marianne frowned. “Oh.” She wanted her freedom.

“But the course is a year long,” Héloïse went on. “And I’d have no guarantee of a job here to come back to afterwards. And then… I would never know if I really do hate it here… or if I’d like it more, if I didn’t feel so trapped by everything…” She trailed off, staring at the ceiling, unhappy, as if she were confessing to an infidelity. “Mummy doesn’t know,” she whispered, “but I asked the board of governors for a sabbatical. An official year out. They seemed sympathetic. Given everything. But they’re still discussing it.”

“When would they let you know their decision?” Marianne asked.

“I don’t know,” she murmured. “But I heard yesterday that they’re at least considering my request. They’re seriously considering.” She suddenly jigged on her legs, staring at the red light of the smoke detector, her eyes glazed and gleaming, like a child, trying so hard to shake the tears back down inside. “And I don’t know. I don’t know, anymore. How to feel about it.”

“Héloïse.” Marianne went to her, bound her arms about her, held her fast. “These are good things,” she murmured into the coil of the ear. “These are all good things.”

“I know.”

“Then why?”

She felt a hand press the back of her head, sinking into the softness of her thick hair. “You’ve never been scared of wanting something new?” she heard Héloïse ask. “Of something changing? Or ending?”

“Of course,” Marianne whispered back. ‘So scared,’ she added to herself. ‘Why else did I wait so long for this? For you? I must have been scared witless.’ “But we’re not there yet,” she said into the shoulder, the neck. “And anyway, next year, I have no plans at all. No idea where I’ll be, or doing what. And Cambridge…” She pressed her head to Héloïse’s. “It’s not the moon.” There was still rain on her skin, caught in the brow line, where the hair grew in softer, and darker, before the sun could get to it and spin it into gold. “Let’s go to bed.”

The fingers gripped. “Are you sure?”

“We have to be up in four hours.”

“I don’t want to lose you.”

“So,” Marianne whispered, “come to bed with me.”

She woke with Heloise’s hand on the skin of her back, heavy and hot, and Florence tucked between their pillows.

Marianne placed the little black cardboard box on the table, sealed, taped, ready.

“Funny,” Miss Blanchard said. “I thought this last one would be more hi tech.”

“No,” Marianne said quietly. “It is the most basic.” She brushed the plain black surface. Such a simple thing. “A sacrificial camera. Built in the dark room with the paper already inside. I will have to destroy it, to get the photograph out.”

“How sinister,” Miss Blanchard murmured.

Marianne smiled. “Some of my models become quite superstitious about them. They don’t ever want the picture developed. They keep the cameras as a reminder, sealed up, and whole.”

“Why?” Miss Blanchard asked at last.

Marianne shrugged. “I’ve never had it done, so I can’t tell you,” she said. “You could ask Abby. She has about three of them, I think.”

Miss Blanchard swallowed, eyeing the box, as though it might be about to snatch something away from her, hold it hostage in the dark. “Maybe, I will,” she murmured.

“Would you like to get comfortable?” Marianne asked. “You’ll need to be quite motionless.”

Miss Blanchard asked, “What should I do?”

“Whatever you like,” Marianne said, getting out her sketchbook, her pencils, ready to make the most of her subject’s stillness. “But twenty minutes is a long time. So, something sustainable.”

Miss Blanchard sat in her chair, her hands folded in her lap, her head back.

“Ready?” Marianne asked.

“I think so.”

“Open.”

Miss Blanchard watched Marianne’s movements for the first five minutes, as she opened the pad, and began to draw. The headmistress’s eyes were slightly hooded, her fingers resting easily. Marianne would flick her eyes upward, and find the glimmer of watchful, canny interest quickening back at her. “You know,” Miss Blanchard said after a while, her low voice easing with the drowsy sound of the pencil, “I don’t think that I believe there is really paper in that camera at all.”

Marianne laughed. “You wouldn’t be the first to doubt it,” she replied softly.

“It’s a ruse,” Miss Blanchard went on. “To make a busy woman sit still.”

Marianne flashed a grin that she knew to be cheeky. “And it works brilliantly.”

There was another pause, lasting long, silent minutes, before Miss Blanchard whispered, “I suppose, it is an exercise in trust. Another dare, Marianne.”

She was falling asleep.

Marianne wondered how she could tell so definitely, when the woman had barely moved. Because the mouth opened just slightly. Just at the centre. Because the voice became hitched and rumpled. Marianne felt a sudden wave of irrepressible fondness, and whispered back. “To let someone really see you.”

There was no reply. And Marianne drew in the quiet of the study, glancing between her sleeping subject and the patient page.

The minutes passed silently, and Marianne, absorbed in her work, fairly jumped on hearing the door open. She turned in her chair to see Héloïse, paused on the threshold, unsettled, until Marianne beckoned to her.

She crept across the room, eyeing the dozing figure of her mother like a wary cat above a kennel. She approached Marianne, and glanced wordlessly at the drawings, stared unblinking for a moment, and then gazed up at the sleeping shape in the chair, her eyes steady, pensive. ‘Yes,’ Marianne thought. ‘You are alike. Why has it taken my eyes, for you to see?’

Héloïse lowered herself onto the arm of Marianne’s seat, very slowly and softly, her shoulder pressing Marianne’s, continuing to look at her mother with that strange, unreadable stare, which hid everything except the desire to conceal. She was motionless for so long that Marianne decided to continue with her study. Steadily, methodically, she sketched in the shape of the loosened jaw, the tuck of the chin into the strong neck. She was just adjusting the shadow of the throat, when she became aware of a new stillness in the warm shape next to her, felt the whisper of breath across the backs of her hands as she drew. She knew that Héloïse had turned her head, was watching her draw, intent, inscrutable. Marianne made sure to finish what she was doing before she looked up.

She was prepared, and still immediately caught off guard. The eyes were gentle, lashes lowered, the planes of the beautiful face already angled towards Marianne’s mouth. And Héloïse was leaning in before Marianne could outsmart her own instincts.

The kiss was soft, tender, held for a moment by the pressure of a hand to the back of Marianne’s neck, but released without deepening. Afterwards, Marianne’s eyes flickered open, the breath sighing out of her softened mouth in spite of herself. And she found Héloïse held her gaze averted, at arm’s length, uncertain herself as to what that had been, and why it had happened. When her eyes did lift, it was with an expression of apology, of affection, and she squeezed Marianne’s shoulder, before she rose again from the chair arm, abandoning her seat as silently as she had taken it.

She left them without a word, raising a single hand in a reluctant wave as she closed the study door behind her.

And Marianne was still blushing, still disarmed when she tried to turn back to her sketches. She was muddled, by the kiss, by how sweet and unexpected it had been, how unaffected and simple. How, even so, it had shot her straight through, as surely as if the hand on her neck had instead been on her thighs, or slipped between.

It was a moment before she could properly refocus on the sleeping figure. When she did, she saw the slightest glimmer of reflection between the lashes. The eyes were slightly open. There was no movement, no expression, no sign that her subject was awake. But the breathing was shallower, and the jaw seemed set in place, where once it had sagged slightly.

Marianne steadied herself, began to draw again, as if she could form the calm onto the flat page with practised hands.

When the timer for the camera was about to end, Marianne closed the pinhole a little early. It felt as if a year had passed between them, and she could see, just from how relaxed her subject was, exactly what was going to happen. At the sound of the alarm, Miss Blanchard sparked awake, jerking forward in her chair. And then immediately looked horror struck.

“Oh,” she muttered distractedly, her hands in her curls. “Oh, did I ruin it?”

“No,” Marianne replied, closing her sketchbook. “We got what we needed.”

Marianne hesitated, wondering, for a moment. She observed, as a hazy Miss Blanchard tried to smooth herself awake by the hair, and decided to test the waters of the headmistress’s obvious confusion. “Héloïse popped by,” she said lightly, watching.

Miss Blanchard frowned. “Oh, bugger it,” she whispered. “Of course, that would be today.” She patted the arms of the chair firmly, and stood. “Well. Lucky I dropped off, wasn’t it? Or I would have been dashing all over, thither and yon.” And then, there was a pause, just a twinkle. “What time is it Marianne? Could you tell me?”

“Still very much on the clock, I’m afraid.”

“What a pity. Well, just between us, did she manage to behave?”

And Marianne blushed. And knew she had given herself away. “You know Héloïse,” she mumbled.

Miss Blanchard hummed skeptically, but affectionately. “Yes. I do. Well enough to wonder, as my mother used to say. Cui peccare licet, peccat minus.”

“Veni, vidi, vici?” Marianne tried hopefully.

Miss Blanchard raised one eyebrow. “Well, yes, dear, I suppose you did.”

And no more was said about it.

Marianne picked up the little camera, balanced it in her palm. This always felt like a delicate moment, the box itself no heavier than a bird, poised, ready to launch into space. She held it out. “Are you happy for me to develop it?” she asked.

Strange. She had expected the answer to be automatic, maybe even a little dismissive. But there was a pause, a waver in the still waking eyes.

“Perhaps,” Miss Blanchard said slowly, “you wouldn’t mind if I waited? Just until I have the chance to talk to Abby?”

“Of course.”

“I don’t know why. I just…”

“I understand.” Marianne placed the little black box on the lid of the desk. “Don’t open the pinhole.”

They looked at the object together for a moment. “You know the phrase I always loved, as a teacher?” Miss Blanchard whispered. “‘Potential energy.’ You learn to see it everywhere. All these little lives, poised to blast off. That’s what this has.” Her teeth gleamed, eyes fixed on the cube. “Positively vibrating with the stuff.”

“Do you miss it, yet?” Marianne asked.

Miss Blanchard frowned at her in honest confusion. “Posing?” she demanded.

“Teaching.”

And there was a gap between them, hollow and charged. It seemed for a moment, as though the headmistress might have been on the point of confessing something. But she had not yet decided before there was a sharp rap on the door. And when it opened without Miss Blanchard’s replying, the opportunity was gone.

“Veronica?” The voice was Mrs Postlethwaite’s; barking from the hallway, advancing at a quick march. “Do you have a minute? I…” She stopped on seeing Marianne. And her expression hardened slightly. “Oh, I do beg your pardon,” she said, through bleached teeth. “I did not know you had a session today.”

“The last one,” Miss Blanchard said with a practised smile. “Marianne has fairly captured me.”

“Ah, yes. The famous portrait.” Henrietta breezed in. Marianne had never had the knack of a decent breeze; moulding the room to your will through the power of movement. It was a skill they must teach at girls’ boarding schools, she supposed. “Speaking of your portraits, Marianne,” Henrietta went on, “we might as well tackle this while you’re here. Your website,” she said, with an unfeeling reptilian stare. “I think it should come down. While you are teaching at Otterbourne.”

Marianne felt herself blink very slowly. “You do?” she repeated, stonily.

“Jodie found it on our home computer,” Henrietta announced, seating herself. “And if she has, well! You can guarantee that other, less mature children will have done as well.”

“It’s hardly graphic stuff, Henrietta,” Miss Blanchard interjected.

“Not graphic, maybe,” Mrs Postlethwaite replied with an exaggerated roll of her eyes, “but I had several questions I would rather not answer at seven thirty on a Tuesday, I can tell you.” She put on a high, childish voice. “Mummy, why are those ladies in bed together, Mummy? Why are they both bare, Mummy?”

Marianne felt ill. At the impression. At its casual cruelty.

“The school content blockers seem to be doing a pretty good job of catching it,” she said. “Maybe you just need better parental controls at home.”

“Oh, no,” Mrs Postlethwaite dismissed her. “Carl’s children would never stand for it. And anyway, we don’t hide anything like that from Jodie.”

Marianne gritted her teeth. “A few blurry photographs and an oil painting or two are probably the least of your worries, then,” she managed.

Henrietta flexed her painted lips into a smile. “We answer any questions as they arise,” she said. “As equals. You’ll understand, when you have children of your own. _If_ you ever have children of your own.”

“In that case,” Marianne briskly replied, “there would seem to be no need to take my website down.”

“Well, there’s no very good reason to have it up. Is there?” Henrietta laughed, as if it were the most self-evident thing in the world. “You’re not a painter any more. And, as I said, it isn’t Jodie that I worry about.”

“No,” Marianne agreed, forcefully. “No, that I can fully believe.”

The silence that followed was scooped as a cave. Whatever was said next would reverberate, and Marianne did not trust herself.

She was relieved then, when she heard Miss Blanchard’s voice, calm and heavy. “Whatever is best for the children,” it said, “is what we will do. Always. And, Marianne, you know, that long-running matter you asked me to take onboard during our last session.” Her expression was uncharacteristically serene. “It would be much easier to arrange, if allowances could be made. Somewhere.”

Marianne understood perfectly. She was being asked to give the woman a victory. To sacrifice something, something at once meaningless and vital, for Jodie’s sake. She understood. And she rebelled. And controlled herself. And breathed.

And did what was best.

“I will certainly think about it,” she murmured.

Miss Blanchard touched her upper arm. For the first time. Compassionate. Proud.

Motherly.

“Do that,” she said.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Be confused and potentially delighted by Flos Campi. I find it one of Vaughan Williams' most confounding and absorbing works. It has been added to the Far from the Tree spotify playlist:
> 
> [Now That's What I Call Atonal Postmodern Symphonic](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/3fPdiEQLH73sqSmaYFLYEP?si=bE3gE0IJRhid9Lp3ZFXPag)


	20. Where Things End

“Why?” Héloïse asked. Her voice was glacial.

Marianne sighed, and counted off on her fingers. “It’s old. It’s a bit tired. It’s costing me money. It’s not relevant right now. The more I thought about it, the less of a big deal it seemed.”

Heloise’s arms were buttressed tight. “But it’s your work,” she stated. “It’s who you are. You said so.”

“I said it was a big part. But not all. I am more than my paintings,” Marianne replied quietly. “You wouldn’t be interested in me if I wasn’t.”

“Your work was the first thing I knew about you,” Héloïse stated. “Looking at your website was how I met you. And you shouldn’t have to hide it, just because Mummy demands.”

The sun was shining, and this was the first break they had been able to share outside in a while. Marianne had imagined she might have enjoyed it more. She downed her coffee. “Mummy doesn’t demand,” Marianne said irritably. “I decided. And it will be easy enough to put back up when I leave. If I decide that I want to. So, where’s the harm?”

“Where’s the point?”

“Héloïse.”

“You don’t know what they do,” Héloïse said, her tone barbed. “How much of yourself are you willing to let this place wipe away? How much are you willing to compromise?”

“It’s five more months,” Marianne said into the stillness of the quad. And Heloise’s expression altered. She stopped herself from whatever it was that she was about to say, and instead stared at Marianne, her face flushed. “That’s all I have left here. Not five years,” Marianne went on. “Not twenty five years.” She shrugged, and felt a sudden wave of sadness wash over her, the salty breeze blowing before the storm of change, the panic of feeling that they had barely begun. “It’s just a matter of weeks, really,” she mumbled. “Please don’t…” Make this harder for me, was what she meant to say. But what came out was, “… be so dramatic.” And she regretted it instantly. Héloïse glared at the ground, nodded once, and stalked away, her hands deep in her pockets. And Marianne did not call after her.

“So this exposure time with the nice bright light in here is going to be ten minutes,” Marianne announced to the club. “Can you see how Sophie has put a heavy roll of tape on top of hers so it won’t move about? Can you all find something heavy to put on top of your cameras? Not so heavy that it will crush it. No, Esme, the flat iron would definitely be too heavy, wouldn’t it? Yes, put it back, please.”

She was tired.

She and Héloïse had talked, and kissed, and grumbled their way through the week, driving each other into tempers over nothing, and always slamming back together and coming to rest naked on one another’s flanks, swollen lips swearing that tomorrow it would be different. It would be better. Because they could see. They could see, now.

But they didn’t.

Not yet, anyway. It was as if they were standing on the same hill, Marianne thought, holding on to one another for dear life, staring in opposite directions.

“So, if we’re looking at the still life arrangement there, just check the camera is at the height that you want it, and pointed in the right direction. Okay, counting down from three, we’ll open the pinholes. Three, two, one.”

“I wish you knew what you wanted,” Héloïse had murmured one night, holding her so tight there had been marks in the morning.

“I want you,” Marianne had whispered back. “We’re good together. Isn’t that enough?”

And the silence had sighed white hot between them, and lasted until sleep beat them down.

“So when we go to the darkroom with these,” Marianne said, “and we will go in two at a time, remember, who can tell me what the first chemical will be?”

“Developer!”

“Very good, Charlie. Do remember to raise your hand, please, even though it is club time. And how long in the developer? Yes, Jodie.”

“One to two minutes, with plenty of agitation, until there is good contrast. Then, into the stop bath for thirty seconds.”

“Thank you, yes, that would have been my next question. And what does the stop bath do, someone else? The clue is in the name.”

“Stops the process. Stops the colours from changing more.”

“I’ve never been good at the moment,” Héloïse confessed into the dim morning. “I am loyal to dead things; things that died long before they left me. And I mourn beautiful, warm, living things, that have just barely begun. The present terrifies me. Constantly slipping away. Climbing glass. But if there were just one tiny place in the world,” she whispered, “where it could be you and me, with cups of bad coffee, and muddy walks, and your studio all quiet and calm. Endless Saturday afternoons. With Sophie swearing forever, somewhere…” Marianne had laughed, hiding her face in the duvet. “I could go anywhere,” Héloïse had declared across the pillows, her voice cracking. “I could do anything at all, and not be scared. If I just knew there was this, and you, to come back to.” And she had smiled, and swallowed at once. “But then,” she said, “if everything was all going to be the same afterwards, there wouldn’t be much point in going.”

“I could go with you,” Marianne whispered.

And Héloïse had nodded, and gripped her lips, and frowned, blushed a little. “That terrifies me too,” she said, reaching for Marianne’s face and stroking, soft as cobwebs. “What if I take you somewhere you don’t want to be?”

“And the final chemical?”

“The fixer.”

“And the fixer makes it permanent. Freezes everything in place. Washes away all the silver. So it can stand in the light, and be safe.”

There was a netball match. That first Saturday. A big one, for the under thirteens. Marianne was all prepared to go in her Otters sweatshirt and cheer nervously from the sidelines, but Mrs Badger went and twisted her ankle. Under the fluorescent lights of sickbay, it looked bad, swollen purple beneath the ice pack.

“You’ll have to umpire, Marianne,” she decreed, but there was apprehension in her voice. “You’ll be fine. They’ll adjust.”

“Will you be there to support them?” Marianne asked, worrying about morale, wanting to be able to encourage the team.

“If I can hobble down there on crutches,” Mrs Badger said. “But there’ll be a good turnout in the crowd. They’ll be okay. Probably.”

Probably was not good enough, Marianne thought. They had worked so hard. Héloïse watched her worry herself into her sports kit after lessons with hesitant eyes.

“I can come, if you like,” she suggested. “I can wear the jumper. Chief cheerleader, or whatever it was.”

Marianne stared at her. “Nothing negative,” she warned. “You use the wrong jargon, you’ll just confuse them.”

“Upbeat,” Héloïse confirmed. “Hearty. Loud. Bland.”

“Promise?”

And Héloïse had paused. “If it means that much to you.”

“Thank you.” And Marianne kissed her quickly. She needed to dash away, but Héloïse held onto her sleeve.

“Does it mean that much to you?”

Marianne could not read her face. There was another question, one that had never been asked out loud. And she did not have the time to mind-read. Not today. “It’s important for the girls,” she replied. “And I’m late. Please.”

And Héloïse nodded, dropping her eyes and her sleeve and her voice. “I’ll be there,” she said.

She was as good as her word. Standing on the sidelines like a booming lighthouse, a fair-haired, concentrated presence, wearing the sweatshirt, leading the cheers for the school, as if lives depended on it. Always encouraging. Always positive, even when Marianne knew it had to be killing her competitive instinct, her irascible temper. Wherever Marianne was on the court, she could hear the large hands clapping together in the bundled crowd, the strong voice shouting out to individual players.

“Well done, Harriet. That’s good, Penny. Keep her covered. Go Miranda, go. Down the line. Come on, Otters!”

It was a hard match; close, and tiring for everyone. Marianne battled to keep her focus. To keep her impartiality. And it broke her heart to disallow a magnificent Otterbourne goal, scored in the final few minutes.

“Line infringement,” she said. “Your foot was on the line, Esme, I’m sorry.”

The young face confronting her was a pattern of confusion, of betrayal. There was uncertainty in the crowd as well. The shot had been amazing. There had been such a roar from the Otterbourne supporters and now, silence.

“Play on, Otters!” Héloïse called out. “It’s not over yet. Play on! Let’s go!”

And Esme, bless her, turned the play around, hustled, intercepted, scored again. Through sheer grit and stubbornness. And Marianne had never been prouder in all her life.

She blew the final whistle, with Otterbourne ahead by a single goal.

And she flopped over her knees as the clapping started, as the girls screamed and hugged one another, and all her focus was drawn immediately to Héloïse, to the smile, the hands beating together, the crinkle of the eyes beaming back.

And then, Marianne heard her voice called, and Miss Blanchard was on the court, weaving around the celebrating team.

“Well done, Marianne,” she said, striding over. “Well done for stepping in. Well done for being honest.” She hugged her. “Well done.”

And Marianne hugged her back, and felt a surge of something unfamiliar and welcome.

“Three cheers for Poynton Prep, hip hip!”

And Marianne found her eyes returning to the tall, blonde shape in the crowd. And the arms had dropped. And the eyes were large. And the face was wiped empty as crystal.

“Where are we going?” Marianne called to her.

Héloïse was striding up a steep incline, her hands deep in her pockets. She had haunted the edge of the match tea like a beetle, drawing Marianne away with her at the earliest chance. Away towards the river, and the path, and the hill above, covered in beech trees and nut shells, with the view behind them, more stunningly beautiful than ever.

“Héloïse?” Marianne called again.

“Do you have to wear that thing outside of school?” Héloïse muttered back to her.

Marianne glanced down at her sweatshirt, at the Otters logo, and felt tired all over again. “Yes,” she said. “Because you didn’t give me time to change.”

“It looks ridiculous.”

“You’re ridiculous!” Marianne yelled back. “You knew I was wearing it when you dragged me out here, and now you’re telling me off for it! You’re being silly.”

“Silly?”

“Yes. Again,” she said. “You’re sulking about something. And you can’t even bring yourself to tell me what it is, because you know the minute it leaves your mouth it will sound silly, because it _is_ silly, because you’re being silly, and I can’t help you when you’re like this.”

“I don’t want your help,” Héloïse said, stamping up the hill. “You’re part of it now.”

Marianne felt cold.

So. This was about the hug. And the website. And the club. And Jodie. And the portrait. And everything. But perhaps about the hug most of all. Had she ever seen Héloïse and her mother embrace? She could not think. But the thought hurt her, deep in her gut, because in the moment, it had felt so simple and so right.

“Sometimes,” Marianne said, her thoughts blooming black, “I feel as though the only thing that attracted you to me is that I’m an outsider.” And the figure before her stopped, turned, glared. “The more I come to belong here, the less you like it.” In the tense silence that followed, Marianne strode away from the path, into a copse of beech trees. She swung her legs, wondering if this was how it all ended, in a basin of brown leaves, on a beautiful Saturday, bathed in March sunshine.

“That is rich coming from you.” She had expected anger, but Héloïse’s voice sounded close to tears.

“What is?” Marianne demanded, turning. And Héloïse was standing on the hillside, hands to her hips, eyes reddened, nose already running.

“You’re in love with Otterbourne!” she sobbed. “You don’t feel that way about me. You’re in love with the school and I’m just the bit of it you can fuck.”

Marianne swayed on her feet, felt the cool solidity of a tree behind her, tipped her head back against it, so she could breathe a little easier, so she could see the sky, as the tears came.

“Don’t make me say it like this,” she whispered. “You wanted to take things slowly. _You_ wanted that. And I have been trying so hard, every time, not to say it. Every time we… Don’t make me say it like this.”

And Héloïse was suddenly near her, hovering, uncertain, her boots sliding on nut shells and leaves. “I love you.” Each word an apology. And a confession. And an offering. “I love you, Marianne.”

“I love you too,” Marianne gasped out. Her hands searching, finding, pulling close. “I love you so much. I love you.”

They were holding each other, pressed hard against the trunk, angled awkwardly over the hills and valleys of its roots, and the uneven ground beneath. And Heloise’s voice was a cracked rumble in Marianne’s ear. “I love everything about you. I love your stupid sweatshirts. I love that you love my home. I just get jealous.” Another sob. A tightening of the fingers in her hair; at her waist. “I’m sorry. I know I get jealous. I just don’t want to share you with them. After what they did to my family. I’m so sorry.”

And Marianne wanted to say that it was okay. That she understood. That she knew this was about so much more than her. But instead she kissed, over and over, any part of Héloïse she could reach. Ear. Cheekbone. Temple. Hair. Eyebrow. Until her mouth was offered and found. And then, they needed nothing else, no words, no declarations; just the surge, and the heat, the softness of lips, the grip of teeth, and the smell of the earth.

Marianne felt herself sliding. After all the strained, frustrated emotion of the previous week, the relief of saying everything out loud at last, and it not being too soon at all, the sudden, desperate return of fire; it felt as if the cord had been pulled, the canopy opened, the plummet averted. And they could drift here, together, for a while.

She had never had any trouble with the moment. She wanted more than anything to carry Héloïse down in her arms into the ever shifting present, to show her the peace of movement. But when the kiss broke briefly, it was Marianne who moaned, Marianne’s mouth that swelled up, and her spine that arched forward, demanding.

And Héloïse was panting, leaning her against the tree. Her soft eyes shone alert and bright, her cheeks polished red as her mouth, as the tips of her ears, as the curve of her throat. “You’re…” she said.

And Marianne nodded, feeling the slip between her legs, unmistakably, thrillingly animal. “I’ll be fine. I’ll just…”

Heloise murmured, hesitating, “Do you want…?”

The sudden flash of eyes that needed no words. Yes. Yes. I do. Yes. You. Now. But I can’t ask. I don’t know how to ask.

“I’ll be fine.”

And the brush of Héloïse’s hand at her waist and the startled groan from her own throat that betrayed the lie before it was even told.

Again. “Do you want me to?”

The fingers that crept along the band of her tracksuit, pulled just gently. The sudden alert expression, whipping around them, in their little shaded grove of trees, body angling just slightly, protecting her, shielding her from the hill and the distant path with broad shoulders and an open coat. Marianne lifted her eyes. “Would you?” she whispered.

And in answer, the fingers pulled firmly, and one knee pressed her thigh wide and open, nudging her foot onto the rise of a root, and the hand. The hand, so soft and hard and hot and familiar and alien, knowing, fitting itself, down, over and under her. And there was a whimper, but it was not hers.

“You’re so…” Héloïse murmured.

“Please,” she gasped. And then the slide. And her mouth open and silent in a perfect o. And the world fixed in place, flawless.

“Do you need,” the voice so close to her ear, with the sound of the trees and the birds, that it might have been there in her mind with her, “me to lie you down?”

“No,” she whispered. “No, this is good. It’s good. Just. Move. Please.”

And she could see the sky, between the branches, as she clung to the surge of Héloïse’s shoulders, as if she might fall. But she wouldn’t. They wouldn’t. They wouldn’t let each other. Even though Héloïse held her so carefully, as they pressed, hips bucking back against the trunk, the air pumped from Marianne’s lungs in soft huffs.

She could see the sky. Gazing into Héloïse’s eyes, she could see it, patterned with blank branches, reflected from the shine of her own. Reflections of reflections of endless light.

“Are you okay?”

She nodded.

“Are you close?”

She nodded again.

“Can you be quiet?”

She gasped, and shifted. And could not answer. Because suddenly it was happening and she was bearing down and clamping and flying, and her spine wanted her pelvis to arch the other way, please God, and her back slid on the bark a little.

Héloïse caught her, held her up, urged her through it, her eyes, grey as trees. Green as still water.

Tumbling into the aftershock, the movement of the hand was suddenly too much. Marianne gripped it with her own, held it fast and close and still, gasping as she slipped against it, struggling for her footing. She breathed into Héloïse’s neck. Found herself blinking, sighing, settling.

Héloïse whispered, her voice a quiet tremble, her words spilling over like the lapping of a lake. “You. You were. I have never. Anything more beautiful. All my life.”

Her body arched carefully, achingly away from Marianne’s, vibrating in the spaces between them. Her hand withdrew gently, and Marianne caught it again, lifted it to her lips on instinct, took the fingers in her mouth, on her tongue, eyes closed. And for another span of seconds, the world was soft, and warm, and perfect.

“Can I? For you?” she murmured, reaching, tucking herself sideways a little into Héloïse’s chest, belly. “Do you want me to?”

And Héloïse laughed, and groaned and mouthed, but shushed her. “I mean, yes,” she murmured, her eyes dancing. “I do. Very much. But I think we just about got away with it.”

And Marianne would have kissed her, and turned her, and encouraged her a little, but a sudden sound in the bushes made them start apart, guilty as foxes, hands whipping back and behind.

A spaniel, brown and white, dashed from the undergrowth, his tail wagging like a piston, all paws and ears and excitement. He snuffled around their ankles and the tops of their boots, and they drew further apart to make room for him to dash and spin and circle.

They saw one another clearly, from the distance of a few feet; rumpled, and raw, and startlingly beautiful.

When a voice called out after the dog, “Brandon!”, they grasped hands and picked their way hurriedly up the hill, further from the path, further into the trees, where they could laugh, and kiss, and breathe more easily, stumbling home.

“I won’t be that any more,” Marianne told her.

Héloïse was lying with her head on Marianne’s stomach, gazing up into her eyes, Marianne’s hand tangled in her hair. “I can’t be your scapegoat. For how you feel about what happened to them, and him, and you.”

Héloïse nodded slowly. “I know,” she said. “I’m sorry.”

“Can you live with the fact that I like it?” Marianne asked, seriously. “The school? The job? Your mother? That I can like all of it, and still ache for you, for everything you’ve been through? And love you anyway?”

Another slow nod. Héloïse asking, “Can you live with the fact that I love you, even though my mother and I have never seen eye to eye? That my gut still takes my father’s side, even knowing he was completely in the wrong? That I know he blamed everyone and everything but himself, even to the end? And that I know it isn’t fair, I know it isn’t right, but part of me blames them too?”

Marianne nodded. “You loved him,” she murmured back. “It would be strange to be rational about it.”

And the eyes filled, pleading. “I just need for it to make sense. I keep coming back and back. Hoping that it will. Believing that it must.”

“Some things don’t, Héloïse. Not ever.” She stroked the hair, as the tears trickled down the nose, dripping onto her warm abdomen. She smiled softly. “Do you think I’m waiting for what happened to my mother to make sense?”

“What do you do?” Héloïse asked. “Where do you hide, with it all?”

Slowly, trying not to disturb the naked piece of heaven in her bed, Marianne rolled, reaching for her phone.

“There’s stuff my Dad listened to,” she murmured, scanning through the tracks. “They’re a time and a place. Good for when I need to get it all out.”

“Play one,” Héloïse asked her.

“You want me to cry again?” Marianne asked with a gentle laugh.

“I think I might want to,” Héloïse whispered snuggling down. “But I’ve always been too angry. I waste so much time. Being angry.” She peeped up. “Would that be okay?”

And without replying, Marianne connected to her speaker, and put on the most reliable track. ‘Round Here’. Counting Crows. The distant organ chord, and then the guitar solo, the undulating arpeggio. She would be weeping by the first line, she knew. And yet she played it anyway.

Scooped head to tail, they listened together, held on, in a warm cave of blankets, and breasts and bellies. And nothing was hidden at all.


	21. Leaving Presents

Abby visited, with a car seat full of grizzling, round-cheeked, wobble-headed baby in tow. “Call her BJ and I am leaving,” she warned. And Marianne had laughed, and helped her up the narrow stairs.

They sat together in the little kitchen, as Abby tended to first things first, and breastfed Beatrice. “Nice place, champ,” she said.

“Just wait til you’ve had the tour,” Marianne replied, making tea.

“You know I think I came to a drinks party here, when I first started.” Abby’s smile was sickly sweet. “Would I have vommed in your shower, perchance?”

Marianne laughed. “Beatrice, don’t you listen to your mother. You’ll pick up disgusting habits.”

“Beatrice, don’t you listen to your Auntie Marianne. It’s far better out than in.”

Marianne brought the mugs over, and sat down opposite, smiling in spite of herself. With her chin on her fist, she watched the long, prone shape angled around her friend’s chest, the shock of dark hair, the swiping, chubby mittens. “How was your meeting?” she asked.

Abby’s tone was brisk. “Fine. Just discussing next year and everything.” She shot her friend a loaded glance. “And sacrificial cameras.”

Marianne laughed. “She really brought that up with you?”

“No, I brought it up,” Abby countered. “She has the thing out on her desk. Just… out there. For anyone to see.” She pretended to shiver. “I keep all of mine hidden away in a cupboard, mate. It’s just not right. Like showing off your liver in a jar.”

“Why did you keep them at all?” Marianne asked, suddenly wondering.

Abby tucked her chin defensively. “It’s _your_ thing. Schrödinger's photo, wasn’t it? Does the image truly exist before it is developed? What if it’s never developed? What does that represent to the sitter? The idea that, before you tear into it, that camera could hold the perfect version of you, exactly as you see yourself, forever. And wouldn’t you rather keep it that way?”

“We were eighteen, when I took that first one of you,” Marianne murmured. “Ten years. Maybe, that _was_ perfection, and we just didn’t know it.”

Abby gazed down at the small, insistent creature, windscreen wiping over her chest with anxious, hungry hands, expelling little, comfortable, snorting noises of need and relief. “Could we develop one now, do you think?” she asked. “One of the early ones?”

Marianne was already shaking her head. “The paper won’t have lasted,” she replied. “It would have needed to go in the fridge to stand half a chance.”

“What the fuck have I been doing, then, keeping them safe all this time?” Abby demanded with a hiss of laughter.

“That’s what I asked you! We could open one up,” murmured Marianne. “See what horrors come out. Or you can bin them all, if you like. I don’t mind.”

Abby stroked the chubby cheek, a little sticky with anxious baby sweat, the tiny open mouth, suddenly slack and sated, lower lip shiny smooth, like fired glaze, but impossibly soft. “Don’t be an idiot,” she whispered.

Marianne held Beatrice for a long time. Supporting her soft head, gazing into her large, watchful black eyes, Marianne discovered that she delighted in her smile being mirrored, in coaxing real laughter, throaty and bubbly and helpless. Smelling her hair, and being amazed at how good it all felt.

“You okay with her if I go down the pub?” Abby said, watching quietly from the beanbag.

“Sure,” Marianne replied. “We’ll get in a curry and watch Strictly, won’t we, Beatrice?”

Abby smiled indulgently. “Sounds divine. You ever changed a nappy?”

“Nah. I’ll just hose her down, and whack her in the sink with a lager until you get back.” Marianne smiled up at her friend, and caught something interested and watchful in her expression, and immediately felt the need to change the subject. “You ever hear from Nick?” she asked.

Abby nodded. “He’s well,” she said. “Seeing someone. I don’t think it’s serious.”

“It was never serious with me, remember,” Marianne grinned, bouncing the baby under the arms.

“Well,” Abby allowed, “this time it is seriously not serious.”

“Sounds like Nick,” Marianne said. She was relieved to find that she didn’t feel any sadness, or jealousy. She didn’t even feel wistful. “I’m glad he’s having fun.”

“And you?” Abby asked. And Marianne felt her face heat up, her gut fill with a shy excitement and pride. “Are you having fun, still?”

“It’s always been about more than fun,” she replied, her voice a little dry.

“But you are having some?”

She gave a quiet nod, thinking about finishing the models the night before in the dim studio, playing Shithead with Sophie until gone one in the morning, high as kites on tiredness, and terrible crisps, and wine. Gliding home, with Héloïse bound tight around her shoulders, Héloïse leaping for every beam along the walk, Héloïse running back, dragging Marianne with her by the hand, and leaping for every beam again, to see if they could make them ring together, if they hit exactly in unison, if they timed their jumps perfectly.

The stretch of the long torso in the bed beside her. Always reaching for something. Always striving.

“She’ll be back soon,” Marianne said quietly. “If that’s okay. She’s just been catching up on some work.”

Abby smiled fondly, carefully. “And the rest of it? Veronica says you’re doing brilliantly.” Nod. “And the kids?” Another nod. “And the place?”

“I love it here,” Marianne whispered, sitting Beatrice into the crook of her arm, letting her grasp and play at her sleeve with delicate, anemone fingers. “I love the children. I love teaching. I love its variety, and connection. That it can be about ideas for some of them, and expression for others, and about exploration and care, and still feel structured and safe. I love that the days are never the same, because the children are never the same. It’s been wonderful. And you are so lucky, aren’t you, small? That you and your sister will grow up in such a beautiful place. So bloody lucky, that you’ll need reminding sometimes. But don’t worry.” Marianne leaned over, and kissed the soft head of baby hair. “I’ll remind you. I’ll remind you what a lucky thing you are.”

When Héloïse arrived, and saw the scene in the bedroom, she flushed pink as April, and immediately made herself useful and scarce. They could hear her bumbling around the kitchen, making more tea, humming audibly to herself as she dealt with the washing up.

Abby shot Marianne a teasing glance. “Impressively domesticated,” she said in a low voice. Suspicious, she began looking around herself, pointing out Héloïse’s items one by one, as the eyebrows arched further and further up her laughing face. Two pairs of slippers under the bed. Two bathrobes on the door. Jumpers. Jackets. Florence!

Marianne stuck out her tongue, and called ostentatiously into the kitchen, “What do you want for supper tonight, Héloïse?”

The blonde head poked around the door, eyes still large and unusually brilliant. “We’ve got the leftover tagine, don’t we? That lamb thing you did.”

Marianne said softly, bouncing the baby, trying not to laugh at Abby’s expression, “Aren’t we out of couscous, though?”

“I can pick some up,” Héloïse replied ducking hastily out of the room. “Abby, are you staying for dinner?” she called.

Abby’s face was a picture of wry curiosity. “No, thank you both, I have my own humdrum home life to get back to.”

“Suit yourself,” Marianne replied, rubbing the baby’s tummy with a heavy hand. “Hey, Beatrice. Do you want to stay for some tagine? Do you? With Auntie Héloïse and me?”

“God,” Abby whispered, shaking her head. “I had heard stories. Of the lady gays. And they’re true! They’re all fucking true, aren’t they? At least tell me the sex is still good.”

And Marianne caught her eye, blushed, smiled helplessly.

Abby’s head fell back in the beanbag with a groan of jealous frustration. “Right. That’s it. Héloïse,” she called. “Could you get in here for a moment?”

Héloïse appeared, already looking slightly terrified, wiping her hands on a tea towel.

Abby clambered out of the beanbag, retrieved her daughter from Marianne’s arms with a meaningful glare. She handed the baby to Héloïse, whose hands were suddenly rigid with surprise. “Could you hold her?” Abby did not quite ask. “I just need to talk to Marianne quickly. About something. Over here.”

Marianne gazed once into Héloïse’s, serious, startled face, and nearly laughed out loud. She moved the tea towel from Héloïse’s arm to her shoulder as she passed. “There,” she said gently. “You’ll be fine,” before kissing her on the cheek, and following Abby into the kitchen.

She found Abby rootling in the cupboards. “What are you doing?” Marianne asked, leaning on the door jamb.

Abby pivoted in her semi crouch, her eyes intent. “Searching for your mung beans,” she said her voice completely serious. “Your liquorice tea. Your power tools.”

“There’s a drill in the hall cupboard,” Marianne said helpfully. “Everything else is in the studio. Why, Abby?”

Her friend closed the cupboard, sat on the floor with her back to it. “I just want to be sure,” she said, “that you know what you’re doing.”

Marianne straightened up, sighing audibly. She could have seen it coming. “Explain yourself.”

Abby rolled her eyes, clearly embarrassed. “I am only saying this because you lack busybody female relatives,” she answered. “You do know that?”

“So, get it over with,” Marianne instructed. And was met with complete silence, with pleading eyes. “Here,” she said, relenting, going over and sitting down next to her friend on the slate tiles. “I’ll make it easier.”

As their arms connected, Abby puffed out her cheeks, and blew out one long stream of uncomfortable air. “I mean, as rebounds go…”

“You know it isn’t like that.”

“It kind of is, though,” Abby protested. “What has it been? Three months? And you two have practically moved in together?” Marianne wondered if she should be angry at this point. But she wasn’t. She rested her head on her friend’s shoulder and waited. “Just tell me that you’re happy,” Abby murmured.

“I’m not, always,” Marianne readily confessed. “But when I am, it’s real, and better than anything I have ever known. And when it’s hard, it’s only hard because we know it can be wonderful.”

“There could be something simple out there for you, you know?” Abby said. “I just want to be sure you know that. It can be simple.”

“The important bits _are_ simple,” Marianne replied. “And, as for the rest…”

“That’s not what you want?”

“No.” Marianne smiled.

“You want your connection,” breathed Abby.

Marianne shrugged, neither defensive, nor defiant. But unshakable. “I want her.”

And Abby leaned over, and kissed her on the forehead. “Okay then, champ,” she whispered.

In the silence that followed, their ears tuned in at the same moment to the sound of a voice, drifting softly from the bedroom. Héloïse’s. Not distinct, but pretty well constant; a low murmur of one-sided conversation. Marianne caught Abby’s expression, and knew that her own face had to be a picture, though of what, she was uncertain. She stood, as quietly as she was able, and crept to the corner between the two rooms. She peered round.

Héloïse was sitting on the bed, with Beatrice propped on her lap, using Héloïse’s legs and tummy as a living armchair. They had ‘Shaun the Sheep’ playing on Marianne’s open laptop, but neither was really watching. Instead, Héloïse’s mouth was in the soft baby hair, her large eyes watching with interest as Beatrice played curiously with her hands, where they bound gently around the chubby tummy.

“Yes, those are my thumbs,” Héloïse was murmuring into the black hair. Marianne watched as she nuzzled her nose gently into the back of the head. “Aren’t they funny? All bendy and weird, aren’t they? Bendy and weird.”

Marianne very suddenly had to swing back round into the kitchen, lean on something stable and real, because the emotions galloping though her at that instant were not rational. They were not practical. But they were human, so vehemently human that they startled her, made her heart swell and her gut swim.

And Abby was staring at her.

And she could have laughed. Any lesser friend would have laughed at her. But Abby didn’t. Instead she reached in, drew her by the shoulders and gave her a massive hug.

“You’re sure,” she said.

“Yes,” Marianne replied, her voice catching.

Abby chuckled, sighed, stroked her friend’s back. “It wasn’t a question, Marianne.”

Later, she gave Héloïse the same, gorilla hug. They had strapped a sleeping child back into her car seat together, careful as a bomb squad, and rescued Florence from the fierce clutches of determined paws.

And when Marianne and Héloïse had helped Abby down to the car with Beatrice, waved them off, climbed up into the little flat which was theirs, undeniably theirs, Marianne had pushed Héloïse back onto the bed without a word, kissed her as if her kisses were sunlight, and worked the trousers down the slim hips.

“What’s going on?” Héloïse had husked, knowing full well, her eyes hooded, and her smile soft.

But Marianne would not be teased. Not about this. Not with everything that was currently sloshing wildly about inside her, irresistible and unanswerable as a riptide. “Shut up and spread,” she whispered. And, understanding completely, Héloïse obeyed.

Miss Blanchard decided that she would keep the camera.

“You have all those sketches anyway, don’t you?” she asked with an easy cheeriness that was not quite convincing. “And you’ve already started painting, from what Héloïse was telling me.”

Marianne had smiled. Héloïse had been talking to her mother. About her. “Yes, it’s going well.”

“I’ve been meaning to drop by. See your progress. But I know how you artists are. No peeking until it’s finished.”

“It’s our painting,” Marianne told her. “Yours and mine. You can see it whenever you like.”

“So, you don’t mind?” There was just a hint of nervousness. “About the camera?”

“It’s yours,” Marianne replied. “We have more than enough to work with. And please come by.”

The children viewed the steadily progressing portrait with varying levels of interest.

“Why is it taking so long?” Callum asked, with his usual, rugby bluntness.

“A few reasons,” Marianne replied. “I use oil, and they take lot longer to dry than water based paints. And I have to teach you lot, so I can’t concentrate on it for very long. But it should be done by the end of the holidays, and then ready to varnish by the middle of next term.”

“You have to varnish it?” asked Harriet. “Why?”

“It brings out all the colours. And it protects the picture. But the paints have to be completely dry first, or they will shrink underneath and crack the varnish.”

Jodie examined it with narrowed eyes, as the Easter break approached. “But why are _you_ still doing it?” she asked.

“Still?” Marianne had demanded, her attention elsewhere.

“Mummy said you weren’t an artist any more.”

Marianne felt her temper flare. “Well, your mummy is wrong,” she replied, struggling with a tray of poster paints, and about as far from the mood as was humanly possible.

The weighted look had returned to Jodie’s young features, and Marianne, with a pang of immediate regret, anticipated a calculating outburst. But none came. Instead, in a voice that sounded fascinated, as though coming to grips with the idea that the calcium in her bones had been formed inside a star, Jodie murmured, “Is she?”

Marianne put the tray down. Nodded. “Yes. Even if I never make another penny from painting, it will still be who I am.”

“She said it was a good thing,” Jodie explained quickly. “She said it is a much more stable career, with paid holiday and a pension. She said you should count yourself lucky. Or you would, if you knew what was good for you.”

Marianne felt a strange, foreboding charge sweep over her, like hearing a rattle from an empty room. She knew instinctively that it would be wrong to question a child. Very wrong. That she should not feel the least bit tempted.

“Jodie,” she said quietly, “first of all, it is usually a very bad idea to repeat in person the things that adults say about each other in private. And I imagine that you know that. And secondly, for the record, I do,” she stated. “Count myself lucky. But probably not for the reasons your mother would imagine.”

“Are you angry?” Jodie asked. “With her?” And again, there was a tiny flash, a glare in the eyes, that suggested, deep down, she rather hoped the answer would be yes.

“No,” Marianne said. “But you know better than to gossip. So, I am a little disappointed in you. That’s all.”

Marianne was not as surprised, then, as she should have been, when the request for a meeting with Miss Blanchard came from the secretary’s office, rather than from the woman herself. Nor was she wrong-footed to be seated before the desk, rather than by the fire, when the day of the meeting came. The hope on Miss Blanchard’s face was a little more blatant than she remembered it ever being before, and Marianne wended away from the interview in a slow cyclone of happiness and doubt.

She walked around the bottom field, trying to clear her head; found herself gazing across the field by the conker trees. The horizon was marbled with blue today, and the field seemed smaller, steeper. Marianne wanted to run across it, with the mud clutching at her shoes until she could go no further, just to see what lay beyond. She had a sudden need to know.

At that moment, the phone buzzed in her pocket, bearing a message from Héloïse.

“ _Can we go for a walk?_ ”

Marianne typed back, quicker than her thumbs could neatly manage. “ _I was about to ask you the same thing._ ”

“Abby’s not coming back,” Marianne said. They sat on the fence at the far side of the water meadow, hands resting on the rough wood, little fingers touching. They hadn’t the time to go further. And here was nice: cream light and solemn cows, courted by hovering mayflies, winking and golden. “Her husband has been offered a post in Singapore. They’re moving out in September.”

“She didn’t mention it?” Héloïse asked.

“No,” Marianne said. “Did you know?”

“No.”

“They’re advertising the job,” Marianne went on, her voice sounding almost pained. “They have to, of course. But they want me to apply. They very much want me to apply. They think I would stand an excellent chance, if I did.”

“Who is ‘they’?” Héloïse asked quietly.

Marianne stared into the evening, mystified. “I don’t know,” she replied honestly. “Genuinely, I don’t know. Your mother just kept saying ‘we’.”

Héloïse nodded, before murmuring. “She does that.” She shifted on her hips as if nervous. “Cambridge offered me a place,” she said with a frown.

“That’s wonderful.”

“But the governors haven’t granted me the sabbatical,” Héloïse went on, her voice low. “Not yet.”

“Not yet?”

Heloise sighed. “They want me to beg.”

“I’m sure that’s not true.”

“They’ve already as good as told me it would be a waste of my time and money. That I’m already qualified for the best job in the world.” She drew her hand away from Marianne’s for a moment, shrinking into herself. “I was born here. And they want me to stand in a room full of moneyed idiots and old school ties, and explain why I would want even the option of teaching anywhere else. When I can get scholarships for their children, and coach their daughters’ netball teams in this gorgeous little pocket of the world. Forever and forever. And maybe they’re right. Maybe I am being silly.”

Marianne swallowed, scared and hopeful. “What will you do?” she asked.

Héloïse shrugged, and her voice was dry when she spoke. “What will _you_ do?”

Marianne stared into the familiar eyes, eyes that she now saw more regularly than her own. And knew exactly what she wanted. “Apply,” she said quietly.

Héloïse smiled, a little sadly. “Beg,” she agreed.

They sat together for a while, watching as the setting sun turned the light from milky gold to orange, and then suddenly to a frosty blue, in that startling way spring has of reminding you just how near it lives to winter.

“You know it will never be quite the same,” Marianne said softly. “Don’t you? We will have to find it all again.”

“Not all,” Héloïse countered, shuffling closer along the fence, until their hips and shoulders pressed tight. “And it’s easier looking for something that you already know is there.”

“When you have a map, you mean?” Marianne suggested, blushing.

And Héloïse did not reply. She did not need to. She hummed through a smile as wide as a meadow, and pecked kisses at all the unbalanced angles of Marianne that she could reach, until they nearly fell with laughing.

It was the final week of term, a gloriously sunny afternoon. The school was mobbed by the usual unnerving balance of daffodils and rabbits and brightly coloured eggs, against thorned crowns and silhouetted crucifixes.

Camera club had moved outside for the first time, revelling in the first real, bright sunshine of the year. They had taken over the chapel gardens for the afternoon, bathed in brightness, shielded from the spring winds. Héloïse was with them, keeping careful watch of the potting shed, and the greenhouse, of the sharp tools, and delicate seedlings.

“Pick something interesting to shoot,” Marianne had instructed. “We’ll go for a twenty minute exposure, so see if you can balance any movement you might expect in frame, with a subject that you imagine will stay still for the whole time.”

Esme had picked the greenhouse, with a rose trellis in the foreground that waved in the light breeze. Charlie had focussed on the espaliered apple trees, trying to capture the dramatic perspective of the dwindling lines of branches, tracking across the uneven wall towards the stained glass window of the chapel itself.

Jodie dithered, before seeing where Marianne sat on the little lawn, fixing her with a beady look, and setting up her camera with her in frame. Before Marianne could protest, the wretched child had opened the pinhole, and sat back in the grass, next to Hector, with a satisfied look.

“There,” she said. “Now you have to stay.”

Marianne blinked slowly; slowly enough that she knew it would show in the image. “I don’t, you know,” she replied, at least being careful to move her mouth as little as possible. “In fact, it might be quite interesting if I didn’t. What do you think?”

“No,” Jodie said definitely. “You should stay still. Otherwise it will come out wrong.”

“There is no wrong in art,” Marianne replied. “There is only the unexpected. And something unexpected can be better than something planned, as long as we decide to embrace it, and learn from it.”

“What would I learn from you ruining my picture?” Jodie asked. Hector giggled, and shoved her in the shoulder and she shoved back, and Marianne was glad for a brief moment.

“That you should have asked,” Héloïse answered sternly.

Marianne felt her eyes flick up, and wished she could have said something first, something to dispel the sudden tension. Marianne wanted to say. ‘She’s right. You’re stealing from me. You are claiming my time. My presence. My attention. Pinning me here, at everyone else’s expense. And you know it.’

But what she actually said was, “Yes, you should have asked. And so, in five more minutes, I am going to move, and we are just going to have see what comes out in the darkroom. And make the best of it.”

Jodie’s expression was mutinous. But she said nothing at all to Marianne. Instead, she turned to Héloïse, and asked, “Why are you here, Miss Godard?”

“Are you in Camera Club, now?” Hector chimed in.

Héloïse answered easily, “I’m here to look after the garden.”

And Jodie laughed, just a little, as if at a child shuffling about in their mother’s shoes, or swamped under their father’s flat cap. As if it were all rather funny and dear, and a bit ridiculous. “But it isn’t really yours,” she said. “Is it?”

Marianne thought that Héloïse might have exploded, that she would have had every reason. But instead, she just glanced about herself with her lips pursed, at the apple trees, and the raspberry canes, at the gooseberry bushes and the multitude of sunny daffodils. “No,” she said at last. “It isn’t, really.” She plucked a grass stem, and tickled at her own chin with it. “Maybe you’re right,” she mused. “Maybe I should just let it all go. Let it run wild. Let it wither. What do you think, Hector? Shall I leave it? Shall we see how it does without me?”

Hector shrugged. But Jodie practically bristled. “You wouldn’t do that,” she declared hotly. “Grown ups don’t do that.”

Héloïse pursed her lips, gazing at the sky. “You don’t think so?” she said. “We don’t mean to. Not always. But we all leave, eventually. Look,” she said, getting abruptly to her feet. “Here I go.”

And she walked slowly across the gardens, and sat down by Charlie Fordyce. Marianne watched, as she leant back on her hands, and chatted to the little boy in the sunshine, oblivious and calm.

Jodie was also watching her from under a furious storm cloud. “You’ll go too,” she said to Marianne, fuming. “Won’t you?”

Marianne nodded. “In two minutes, like I said,” she confirmed.

“But you’ll spoil everything,” Jodie muttered, her arms tightly crossed.

“Or I’ll be the making of something strange and wonderful,” Marianne countered. “We won’t know until the dark room. So, next time, ask.”

Jodie said no more about it, but, for the rest of the afternoon, even as she joked and messed around with Hector around the greenhouse, her eyes were enraged.

The image in the dark room emerged slowly in the developer, spectral, and a little disturbing; a pale smear with Marianne’s jawline, sitting in the crocuses, her eyes gleaming out from the stark pattern of the flint wall behind. When it had been washed and wiped, Jodie looked at it for a long time, blinking black in the red light.

“Wow,” Marianne said. “Well done, Jodie.”

“I didn’t do it,” the girl replied sullenly. “It was you.”

“It was a collaboration,” Marianne corrected, “as all the best works of art should be. You should think of a title.”

And Jodie had held the print in reluctant hands, until the lights went on again, unable to take her haunted eyes away.

As they walked home from the studio later, Héloïse and Marianne passed by the door of the Latin room, locked up and darkened for the night. They halted at the same moment.

Lurking on the brick step, there lay a small, domed shape, noticeable only for its weird irregularity, like a lump found beneath familiar skin.

Héloïse approached, stooped, and picked up the object with careful fingers.

“What is it?” Marianne asked as she came back to the light to get a better look.

It was tiny. Almost weightless. A breath of wind would have carried it away into the yawning fields. It was made of a thick, black paper. And folded into the unmistakable shape of a beetle.

“I think it’s a curse,” said Héloïse.


	22. Curses

They stared at it for a long while.

It squatted in the middle of the kitchen table, menacing them. Bleak, and tiny, and very still. One of the legs was slightly flattened, and sat askew of the others. Héloïse rested her chin on the table’s edge, not breathing, and straightened it with one, cautious finger.

“Are you going to open it?” Marianne asked, apprehensively.

“No,” Héloïse replied. “No, I don’t think so.”

Marianne tried to hide her relief, even as she realised how silly she was being. She should at least make a show of being rational. “Don’t you want to know?” she asked.

“I think,” Héloïse said, sitting up very steadily, “we already do know. Don’t we?”

“She’s the only one I’d put money on remembering the pattern,” Marianne agreed. “But she won’t have intended… Héloïse, she won’t have had a clue as to the significance.”

Héloïse muttered, “Still pretty sinister.”

“She’s a child.”

“Yes. A child who is exploring her power over others.” She put her chin back onto the table, and touched the carapace of the beetle with a single finger. “And we would be idiots to assume she doesn’t have any.”

Marianne considered. How had she felt as a twelve year old? Helpless, mostly. Impotent, shuttled from school to school, tormentor to tormentor. The very idea of power could not have been further from her mind; power of any kind; over others, over her situation, over herself. She could not imagine.

She had tried to exert some, once. When she was fourteen. She had looked a girl dead in the eye and sighed, “The schools may be different, but the idiots are the same.” Feeble, in retrospect. But the very next day, a whispering campaign had begun that the new girl gave blowjobs behind the offie for a fiver a time. Then, the same claim began appearing, Tipp-Exed onto toilet walls, not just in the school, but in the local cinema, the arcade, the park. All with her phone number. She and her dad had moved pretty quickly, after that. And Marianne had never again fought back.

She could not imagine.

“Why does she have a thing about you?” she wondered aloud. The wide eyes rose, but the chin did not.

“Why does she have a thing about _you_?” Héloïse countered.

And Marianne found that the thought did not surprise her at all. “You think they are connected?”

“Yes” Héloïse replied, and stared at the beetle. “Even if she doesn’t realise it yet.”

“What should we do?”

Héloïse sat up again. “I’m torn,” she said at last. “Part of me wants to pretend we never found it. And part wants to string it up outside again. For all the world to see.”

And to take away from you, Marianne thought. Until a sudden fear ballooned within her. “We really shouldn’t do that,” she said.

Héloïse finished her thought. “Not without knowing what she’s written. No.” She appeared to dither for a moment, shoving her hands deep into her pockets, leaning as far from the crumpled curse as possible. Suddenly, she launched herself to her feet and left the room. She returned after only a second or two, flipping a book of matches from the hall table between her fingers. With the all the care and ceremony of an ancient sacrifice, she put the beetle into a saucer, struck a light, and set the thing on fire. Then, just as Marianne thought to make a reassuring comment, Heloise pulled her painted hell-nurse from her pocket, and mimed blasting the flame-thrower at the tiny blaze, as the paper blossomed orange and white and crinkled into ash.

Marianne found that she was laughing.

“What?” Héloïse asked her innocently.

“Nothing,” Marianne replied, wiping at her eyes. “You’re a nerd.”

“Because burn out imperfection,” Héloïse said seriously. “Because cleanse with therapeutic flame.”

“You’re my favourite nerd.”

Héloïse beamed at her. “And we never found it,” she declared watching the little flame dance and sputter and crumble away into nothing at all.

Marianne smiled. Whispered. “We never did.”

The Easter break was not long, not by the standards of private school holidays. A little over three weeks. Héloïse and Marianne had agreed, almost wordlessly, that they would spend it all together: the mornings in the school, in the studio, in the quiet of shared space and thought; and the afternoons amid the yellow cowslips, and carpets of pretty bluebells, hiding from the sudden weather under budding sycamores and jagged hawthorns, carrying milky tea with them in thermoses, flapjacks in the pockets of their overcoats.

Marianne worked diligently on the portrait, and on her job application, and wondered uneasily, even as she submitted the one and neared the other’s completion, to what extent the two might be intertwined.

Héloïse worked on her lesson plans for the next term, the study sessions for scholarship candidates, revision assignments and mock exams. She awaited a meeting with the board of governors about her sabbatical. “Before next term,” she said. “They promised.” But the date was not set, and still not set, until it seemed even to Marianne that the cruelty of hoping might have been the intention. “They’re going to make me give up my place,” Héloïse muttered. “They’re going to run down the clock, until they have no time to find a replacement. Then, they’ll force my hand.”

When Marianne was informed that her interview would be conducted in front of a panel from the board, they both concluded that Héloïse’s meeting would have to take place on the same day. And yet, still, no word, and no word came.

At last, on the morning of Marianne’s interview, Héloïse received a text from the school office.

“ _Pop into the Dining Room at 11, if you can. Just a chat. Hope you get this in time_.”

They both stared at the message, coiled around their nerves and one another on the edge of the bed.

“Is that from your mother?” Marianne asked, privately aghast.

“No,” said Héloïse. “No, that’s just how they talk to me.”

“About something so serious?”

“It isn’t serious,” she said quietly, “to them.”

Marianne kissed her shoulder, hard, and determined. “You’ll be great,” she declared. “Go. And beg. Or give them hell. However the spirit moves you.”

“I might not,” Héloïse said, her voice frosty. “I might just not…”

Marianne took the face between her hands, glared into those, beautiful, rebellious eyes and tried to stop herself from swearing. She had her own interview to think about. Damn them.

“What do you want?” she asked, fiercely. “In a perfect world?”

Héloïse held her wrists gently, gazed back. “To be qualified. To be better than myself. To come back, knowing that I’m free to leave if I choose.” She paused. “To love my home again. The way that you do.”

Marianne pressed the face just slightly. “Go,” she whispered.

Marianne was waiting outside the dining room, portfolio in hand.

Ten past twelve.

They were running late already.

She sidled down the corridor of old photographs, wanting to distract herself, searching for the face, the only face that mattered, the perfectly awkward, toothy smile, the intense stare, finding its every iteration across the years, and feeling herself melt, and melt down. “You,” she thought. “You, you, and you. Binding yourself into the ground before my eyes, year on year, without even knowing what was happening, growing so wide and so deep, that to drag you out would be outrageous violence; would mutilate the earth down to the bedrock. Even as you look so vital, so alive that you could fly away behind the glass, did you know? Even then, or then? That the same earth which seeded you, would one day hold you like a grave? Could you see it in your future?

In your father?”

The door to the dining room opened briskly, and the head of a secretary Marianne barely recognised thrust itself into the dim hallway.

“Ten minutes, Marianne. All right?”

She nodded. “Fine. Yes.” And the head retracted.

Not fine. Not fine at all. Her palms were streaming.

She wished that she had heard something, anything from Héloïse. As to how it had gone. And then, she realised that it was far better that she hadn’t. That she could not go into this interview knowing either way. It would be too hard to keep either emotion; that hope; that anger tamped down for long enough to convince them; to fool them.

“No,” she reminded herself. “They asked me. They want me. I have only to go in and show them that they are right. And people love being right.” Then, she stopped herself again. “They _are_ right. I am good at the job. I want the job. I want to be here.” She looked at the long lines of photographs. At some point, there would be a picture, taken next term, with her and Héloïse, frozen together on the same staff bench. And, after a while, the print of that image would come to rest here, on this wall, her own sweet year of Héloïse, joining all the other Héloïses at last. And, for the first time, she knew for a certainty that she wanted there to be more Mariannes. Many, many more. “I belong here. I want to belong here.”

The door opened. And suddenly Héloïse was standing in the hall. She had no expression on her face at all. She turned to Marianne almost unseeing.

So. She had been in there all this time. Well over an hour. Marianne held out her arms. And Héloïse came. And held her; let herself be held.

“Don’t say anything,” Marianne whispered.

“Can’t you tell?”

“Yes,” she whispered. “But don’t.”

Heloise released her. Smiled. “Be amazing,” she said. “Like always.”

“Wait for me,” said Marianne.

“In the gardens.”

“All right.” And suddenly she was embraced again, and squeezed, and knew that she was wanted.

“You’re a teacher, Marianne. You always were. You don’t need them to tell you that.”

And then the warmth released her, and the snapping footsteps faded over the Victorian tile, and Marianne was left alone again, with all the other shades of Héloïse. Héloïse, who loved her home.

The secretary appeared once more.

“Marianne?”

She found that her memory of the interview became both blurred and crystalline almost the instant that it ended.

There were five people present. Miss Blanchard, of course. One governor, Brian Something-or-Rather, whom she recognised from her first interview. And three others, whose faces she knew only as headshots on a website, condensed resumés, interchangeably impressive, towering over the monikers of pets and partners.

“Marianne, do please sit down.”

She had not been nervous. Not as she remembered it. She had been firm. She wanted the job that she was good at.

“The work you have done speaks for itself.”

“Thank you. I am very proud of what we have achieved together.”

“We?”

“The children. Sophie. Abby.”

The usual interview questions. What would you do differently? What would your ambitions be for the department? For the school? Where do you see yourself in five years?

Here, she wanted to yell. Here.

“Still teaching,” she answered.

“Not practising art yourself?”

“I do not see them as mutually exclusive,” she said. Before adding, “In fact, I think that it is vital they are not. It helps the children make the connection.”

“What connection is that?”

“Between themselves and the big ideas of the world,” she remembered saying. “The big expressions of those ideas. We are encouraged to believe that Art, with a capital ‘A’, is this perfected distillation of extreme, human experience; that it is found in concert halls, and in books and galleries. But its very curation is alienating. Inevitably so. Aside from being sexist, racist, classist, imperialist, it can lead to the impression that anything enormous or moving must be the preserve of artists alone. That only writers can genuinely feel poetry, only composers can grapple with harmony. That only painters can fully appreciate beauty. That there is a glamorous, heightened life out there, that is more and better, accessible only to the few; the talented; the chosen.

“Which is rubbish. Craft is one thing. The technical skill to communicate. The learned ability. Important, obviously.

“But Art is connection. The thought worth the effort of thinking. The moment worth the pain of remembering. The feeling worth the vulnerability, the exposure of expression. And what I find wonderful about teaching is seeing first hand how universal that desire to connect can be. Children feel instinctively that their thoughts and feelings and experiences have value. That their lives have importance. Their dreams. Their parents. Their… chickens.” She smiled to herself. “Until they don’t. Until the world drills into them that they are small and boring; that to feel anything big and important and dramatic and real, they have to buy something; that their place is to consume rather than to create. What more powerful guard against that can there be, than to be taught art by artists?”

“How so?” That was Miss Blanchard. Her face was a quiet sea. Like Héloïse’s when she slept.

Marianne smiled. “Because there it is, happening in the corner. Where you’d never think to look for it. Progressing and stumbling and figuring itself out. Not an inspiration; a testament.”

Miss Blanchard smiled in return. “A dare,” she said.

Before she knew where the time had gone, Marianne was standing from her chair, shaking hands with smiling strangers, walking out into the dim, tiled hall with her portfolio.

And she had no idea.

She had said what she thought. And if they did not want her now, then that was right and proper. Because it would not be her they wanted, anyway.

She breathed, and felt a weight flit from her shoulders, brushing the back of her neck with silvery wings as it took flight.

She went to the chapel gardens. Héloïse was sitting under an apple tree, her head back,throat tipped to the sun. Her eyes were closed, but she seemed to know. Marianne sat beside her wordlessly, tucking her shoulder into the warm flank, the soft red jumper.

After a while, Héloïse murmured, “So?”

“I think I may have blown it,” Marianne muttered. “I slightly went off on one.”

Héloïse chuckled, her eyes still closed. “You won’t have,” she said confidently, softly. “Off on which one?”

“My universal artistic validity bollocks… thing.”

“Oh, that old chestnut?” Heloise laughed, nuzzling closer.

“Yes, that one.” And Marianne was blushing.

Héloïse smiled at her fondly, proudly. “They’ll have lapped it up and you know it.”

“We’ll see,” Marianne whispered.

“We will.”

And they were quiet; quiet enough to hear the breeze in the young leaves, the chirruping of sparrows in the far hedge, the creak of the weather vane. Héloïse clung very close suddenly, her head dropped forward.

“What happened?” Marianne asked her.

“Nothing. Nothing really,” Héloïse said into the hot den of their angled bodies. “There’s a reasonable minimum, they said. I haven’t been here long enough to merit a sabbatical.”

“Reasonable?” Marianne repeated.

“I said I’d been here all my life. They accused me of semantics. I accused them of ingratitude.” She shrugged. “They gave me a raise,” she said softly.

“That’s good.”

“I told them to shove it.”

“Héloïse.”

She wiped her face. “I know,” she said, helplessly. “And Mummy just,” she waved a hand, bitterly, “opted out. She left the room. Just left me, and…”

“She couldn’t have been a part of it.”

“I know.”

“You’d have been furious, if she had been a part of it.”

“I know.”

Marianne squeezed her arm slightly, at the rise in desperation. “You didn’t really tell them to shove it?”

Héloïse groaned. “No.”

“What did you say?”

“I said, ‘That isn’t why I’m here.’ I said, ‘If you understood even one of my reasons for wanting this, you would know that isn’t why I’m here.’”

Marianne kissed her shoulder. “How long do they want?” she asked. “As a reasonable minimum?”

“Ten years,” Héloïse muttered, as if it were a jail sentence.

“Seven down,” said Marianne. “Three to go.”

Héloïse laughed, ruefully. “Do you think Cambridge would defer my place for that long?”

“You can always ask.”

“The answer will be no.”

“You can always reapply.”

“I’ll be in my thirties,” Héloïse said. And she turned her head, suddenly smiling. “Can you imagine that? We’ll be all grown up!”

We. We.

And maybe she could be enough, Marianne thought. Maybe. To make staying seem a little less like giving in.

Three years.

“I think you’ve been all grown up for much too long,” she murmured.

Héloïse blinked slowly, and kissed the very tip of Marianne’s nose. “You too.”

“Let’s not think about it anymore?” Marianne almost begged. “Let’s just leave it for now? Until we both know. And then, we can decide. About everything. Later.”

Héloïse took her hand, gripped it tight, and hauled her up. And they walked together to the water meadows.

“God!”

“What?”

Marianne was looking in disbelief beneath her hovering shoe, at the sleek, diamond pattern under her shadow, the wedge shaped head, and bead glittering eyes. “I nearly stepped on it!”

Héloïse joined her, squinting into the new grass. “Oh, she’s pretty.”

“What is she?” Marianne asked.

“An adder,” Héloïse said quietly. “They’re usually quite shy. She didn’t bite you?”

“No,” Marianne replied with a shiver. “I don’t think so.”

“You’d know. She’s venomous. We’d need to get you to a hospital.”

“Jesus.”

They were walking over the hill, beyond the tree, along the path that neither of them knew. “They give birth to live young,” Héloïse said. “Adders, I mean.”

“I didn’t think reptiles did that.”

“Snakes do. Some of them. Perfect little copies of themselves.”

The path was leading them around the crest in the hill. And suddenly, there was the bypass, coiling and glaring beneath them like a choked, black river. The sound, that had been baffled by the hills, hit them full force; a roaring hiss so insistent it became a troubled whisper, like the hot breath of an oven, the mashing of a whirlpool.

So this was why they never came so far around the summit. Bizarre, to think their little garden was ringed so close about by impassable asphalt, by flying metal and glass and grit and rubber. The far hills, pale and shapeless, out towards the suburbs and the distant city, seemed like a strange country, hung about with a dense cloud, covering the whole earth. But of course, the cloud was only smog, dust and heat, thrown up by the motorway. The thought made Marianne’s throat clamp shut.

“Can we go back?” she asked. “Please, can we?”

“I think we should,” Héloïse replied.

They turned together.

“There’s a legend,” Héloïse said later, balancing on the chalk ridges as they wandered. “That an adder’s maternal instinct is so strong, she will swallow her young to protect them from danger.”

Marianne hummed in agreement. “We all know mothers like that,” she said.

But Héloïse didn’t laugh. Instead, she went on, with an edge to her voice, “Some Saxon idiot probably just killed a pregnant female. And didn’t understand what they were seeing.” It took her another few steps to go on. “There are so few of them now. No-one’s died from an adder bite since the seventies. And yet, we’re still afraid.”

“Better safe than sorry.”

“Yes,” Héloïse said. “There’s that. But I think, sometimes, you can inherit fear. It can be carved into the instinct, so deep, that it no longer needs to correlate to any danger to be real. Like spiders.”

“ _Hate_ spiders!” Marianne corrected, with a shiver.

And Héloïse was smiling again. “I know you do,” she said. “Our first date.”

“Oh, that was a date, now?” Marianne teased.

“It was always a date,” Héloïse protested. “What, do you think I quote Ovid on just any random occasion?”

“Yes.”

And she laughed, genuinely, for the first time in a while; threw her head back to the sky, and took Marianne’s hand. And she murmured to her, “‘A viper she trod on, diffused its venom into her body, and robbed her of her best years. I longed to be able to accept it, and I do not say I have not tried.’” And then, without meaning to, she caught Marianne’s eye for a moment. And stopped. Stopped talking. Stopped walking. And her face was very solemn. “‘Love won,’” she whispered.

And when they started off again, matching one another’s stride as naturally as thinking, it somehow wasn’t the same at all.

“I think we should sort through my father’s flat next week,” Héloïse announced quickly.

“Good idea,” Marianne replied, trying to keep her voice level.

“Make a start anyway,” Héloïse said, with a smile that seemed determined to be warm. “Then, we’ll have the choice. Of where to be. Next year.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The holiday season approaches. Why not treat yourself to some thoroughly silly Otters merch? By popular demand, the Otters netball logo made its sorry way onto redbubble, so you, too, can cheer heartily and blandly. Not for profit. Just for fun:
> 
> [Here be Otters Hoodies](https://www.redbubble.com/people/Shorts84/shop?asc=u&ref=account-nav-dropdown)


	23. The Maiden and the Unicorn

There was the small matter of the painting. The other. The first.

They decided to make a trip of it; hired a car, took a cottage on the coast for a couple of nights to give another meaning to the journey.

“Our first holiday,” Héloïse smiled, as they set off.

She had been joking. But they were halfway through it before they even realised it was true, walking on the beach in the pale sun and the whipping wind, the sand flying in their eyes. Having slow sex in a strange bed, new light on tanned skin.

“You drive very carefully,” Héloïse commented. They clung to the limit, hour after hour, sticking determinedly to the outside lane.

Marianne did not reply, her knuckles white on the wheel.

“I mean,” Héloïse corrected herself, seeing the fixed expression, “you drive very well.”

“Thank you,” Marianne muttered.

“I _can_ take a stint,” Héloïse reminded her, “if you like.”

Marianne refused, stiffly. “It’s not you,” she said.

“I know.”

“This is easier than the Jag, anyway,” she muttered. “Hunk of junk.”

“The…?” And Héloïse was suddenly laughing. “I have to meet your father,” she declared. “I have to.”

“Well, he won’t be there,” Marianne quickly replied. “And I’ll only need a second. Then we can turn right around.”

“Are you sure?” Héloïse murmured. “We could spend the night there instead, if you’ve had enough of driving?” But Marianne refused. The idea made her stomach heave, more so than the thought of the road. She couldn’t quite put her finger on why. The narrow bed, perhaps. The barren fridge and bursting freezer. The rested emptiness.

They pulled up in front, and the handbrake was barely on before Marianne was leaping out.

“Five minutes,” she said. But it took her almost that long to struggle with the front door, the lock, the unfamiliar collection of keys. She needed no time at all to find what she was looking for inside, though. It was still wrapped. Brown paper, same as ever. Propped against the wall behind the tv. Where he always put it. In every house he’d ever moseyed into. She carried it out with no hesitation.

“He won’t care?” Héloïse called, the back of the car already open.

“Why would he?” Marianne demanded, sliding it into place. “He’s never even looked at it, and I promised Sophie.” Slamming the boot. “Besides. It’s mine.”

They drove back to the cottage.

Héloïse had barely shut the door behind them, when Marianne was all over her, desperate and demanding and wordless. And Héloïse didn’t ask her what it was, maybe because it had been building all day; and she didn’t need to know, to know what was needed. She gentled Marianne back towards the couch and away from the windows.

They could hear the ocean, the waves and the cackle of the gulls, and they were a part of it all, stripped bare in the afternoon sun. And they moved to the bed after a while, if only for practical reasons; rough carpet, sore knees. They didn’t bother moving again.

“Is that better?” Héloïse asked her, after the silence had loosened from exhaustion into calm.

Marianne nodded, her head on Héloïse’s chest.

They could see the painting from where they had settled. It leaned next to the front door, bound about with packing tape and hairy string. Infinitely patient.

Héloïse kissed Marianne’s head, stroked her hair, her shoulders, her back. “You don’t even want to open it?” she asked. “Have a peek?”

“I don’t need to.”

“Okay.” And she kissed her again.

Marianne closed her eyes; whispered, “Thank you.”

“For what?”

“Not insisting.”

Héloïse laughed a little. “It’s remarkably easy. Not doing things.”

“Is it?” Marianne laughed. “I remember it being agony.” She paused, thought a little. “Was it strange?” she asked. “At my dad’s. That I didn’t ask you in. I never even thought.”

Héloïse considered for a while, her fingers locked in Marianne’s hair, mid-caress. “I knew you felt that way,” she said. “That I didn’t belong there, yet.” And Marianne’s body stiffened at the phrase. “In that part of your life, I mean.”

“It’s okay, when he’s there,” Marianne went on, her voice sounding a little dazed. “It doesn’t seem weird, when he’s there.” She left a pause, as if allowing the hurt she had unwittingly invited to swim in and join them, circling the bed. At last she said, “You know those dreams you have, where you think everything is normal, and then you suddenly realise that someone doesn’t fit? Your dentist is in your studio, or… I don’t know. Your driving instructor is at your kitchen table?”

“My father,” Héloïse whispered. “It’s always my father, now. I never remember until after I wake up.”

“I used to feel like that,” Marianne muttered. “All the time. But, the one that didn’t fit was me. It’s never really gone away; that feeling.”

“I know,” Héloïse murmured.

“I spend my life, waiting for people to realise.”

“Which people?”

“Everyone. Kids at school. Other artists. Critics. Nick. Eventually Dad, even, maybe. You.” Héloïse stroked her hair, softly, letting the breath sigh in and out of her frame under Marianne’s ear, as if she knew it would be comforting. Marianne was whispering, her fingers gripping the sweet, slim hips; the soft waist. “I’m terrified that it might be you. I never felt so right in all my life as I do with you. In Otterbourne, with you.”

And Héloïse was turning her in her arms, drawing level with her blank, staring eyes. “Look at me,” she said softly, over and over. “Look at me.” Until they were facing one another across the pillows, until Marianne was calm enough to go on.

“It isn’t that you don’t belong. _I_ don’t belong in that part of my life,” Marianne murmured. “ _I_ don’t feel right in that house. In any of his houses. He is the only reason I ever go,” she said. “Without him, I feel like a ghost. Like someone will round the corner and see me. And…” She mouthed into silence

“And what?” Héloïse asked.

“And realise,” Marianne said, tremulously. “That I was only ever temporary. That I’m… not the one they were expecting.”

Héloïse’s expression was calm. “Can I tell you something?” she whispered. “Can I tell you about the first time I ever wanted to kiss you?”

Marianne laughed, burying her face into the crush of duvet. “No,” she said after a happy moment. “Let me guess.”

“Okay.”

Marianne stared into those eyes, that open, guileless face, so eager to take some of the pain away, even though she didn’t understand. Couldn’t really understand. If only because she had not carried her own pain for long enough, until it was bound about her like a shell, fused into her skin like cracked leather. But still, she wanted to help carry it, even though it would sometimes mean carrying all of Marianne entirely.

“Chips in the graveyard,” Marianne guessed. “The first time.”

Héloïse grinned sideways, her smile nudging into the pillow. “Guess again.”

Marianne felt a nervous hitch in her gut. “Earlier or…?”

“Earlier.” Her whisper was the gentlest thing Marianne had ever heard.

“When I jumped for the beam? Became a senior?” Again that same laugh, and the shake of the head. “Do you want me to tell you mine?” Marianne asked. A slow nod. “The morning I saw you after your run, and it was raining, and you had fallen.” Marianne smiled, embarrassed, a little. “And I wasn’t allowed to want you yet. But I did. So completely. And the right and the wrong of it were suddenly all turned over.”

“Was that how you knew?”

“Yes. Because it was so backwards, and still so real.”

“The first time you saw me like that, you called me the gardener,” Héloïse reminded her, smiling. She put out a hand, stroked Marianne’s face. “I already felt like I knew you,” she whispered. “I had seen your work, your picture, asked Abby about you. More than I should have.”

“Did you?”

“Yes. And then I came around the corner. And there you were. Staring at me. Knowing nothing about me at all, and staring anyway. I had never been stared at for who I might be, rather than for who I was.”

“Was it then?” Marianne asked.

Héloïse smiled slowly. “Backwards,” she whispered. “And real. Do you want to go?” she asked quickly. “I’m not tired at all. We could just pack the car and go. Wake up in our bed.”

Marianne shuffled closer, into the arms, into the heat and the gentle carefulness. “I love you,” she whispered. “First thing. First light. Breakfast in our bed.” And she mumbled into the soft skin as she began to drift away, into the sounds of the night sea. “Breakfast from the Post Office.”

Héloïse’s flat was a monster to slay.

A maze to navigate.

It was Herculean.

“This will take so much longer than a week,” Héloïse breathed, as they stood together in the cavern of books, paralysed before they had even begun.

Marianne squared her shoulders. “We do a bookcase a day,” she said, “and anything extra is a bonus.” Héloïse nodded, but her pained eyes were glassy. Marianne kissed her, to break the spell. “You, sit there,” she instructed. “We will go exhibit by exhibit, book by book, and you decide. Three piles: keep; charity; bin.”

Héloïse sat, obediently. But they hit trouble almost immediately.

“We’re going to need four piles,” Héloïse insisted. “Keep; offer to Mummy; charity; bin.”

Marianne sagged a little. “Okay. And what proportion of books that you don’t want should we offer to your mother?”

Héloïse shrugged uncomfortably. “All of them?” She saw Marianne’s face. “Is that alright with you?” she asked, and her voice was a needle.

“Yes, of course. It’s all yours to do with as you choose,” Marianne said. “It just slows everything down.” She tried to read Héloïse’s expression. “Do you want to ask if she’s free to come? She can go through it all with us now?”

“No. There’s no point,” Héloïse whispered, her eyes increasingly staggered. “There’s no point in any of it. She’ll want to keep everything. She’ll make some excuse. ‘It’s for the school library.’ Or, ‘You’ll decide you’ll want it later, sweetheart. I’ll just take care of it. Just in case you change your mind.’ And then, it might as well all be here.” She met Marianne’s eyes. “She would never part with anything that he had annotated,” she said. “Nothing with his writing.”

Marianne glanced around at the shelves. “And how much of this would be annotated, do you think?” she asked.

Héloïse sagged lower in the chair, closing her eyes, as if guarding against the memory of a bad dream. “All of it,” she moaned.

Marianne put her hands on the tense knees, and settled on the floor between Héloïse’s legs. She planted one kiss on each thigh, and gazed up into the harrowed face. “It doesn’t have to be now,” she said softly. “But it does have to be sometime.”

“Yes, I know.”

“It’s good of you to mind what she wants,” Marianne said softly. “But they were divorced.” Héloïse flinched slightly at the word. Marianne frowned. “Or was it not over, do you think? For her? Would she have taken him back?” she asked.

“No,” Héloïse said softly. “It was only afterwards, that she started to pretend that it had been a blip; something they could have worked on, if they had only had the time. If only she had realised he was ill.”

“Everyone tells themselves stories,” Marianne whispered. “To make things easier.”

“I don’t think it does make things easier,” Héloïse said. “Not for her. I think it’s a way of torturing herself forever, for the choices that he made. I don’t think she has ever got her head around the idea that he could be an arrogant, cheating arsehole, _and_ be suffering.”

Marianne asked her softly, “Have you?”

Héloïse answered, her voice very small, “No.” She was staring into the middle distance. “He had this way of laughing when things went wrong. He’d say, ‘Something good will come of it.’ I’d break something, or need something mending, and he would look at it and laugh and say something like, ‘Well, something good will come of it all. You’ll see.’ Or, ’Wouldn’t have been my choice, poppet. Not how I would have done it, but something good will come.’ I only realised when I was a grown up that it was actually a criticism. And that he used to say it all the time. About Otterbourne. About Mummy. About his job. About the school. About the village.” She paused. “About all of us. Not his choice. Not how he would have done things. But maybe it could be okay.” She was completely still. “I don’t think it ever even occurred to him.”

Marianne asked quietly, “What?”

Héloïse was so still and distant that she might have been the maiden, embroidered into his footstool, forever charming a unicorn, supporting someone’s slippers. She murmured, “That it was my whole world.” She seemed suddenly to remember that Marianne was present, covered Marianne’s hands with her own, met Marianne’s gaze with a pause in her distraction.

She smiled. Brightly.

“Shall we get on with it, then?”

And Marianne’s agreement was silent. It had to be. Because she could not fathom the effort that the smile had cost. The pain taken. And she could hardly hide her own shock, that an expression of Héloïse’s could sadden her more than grief, bite deeper than emptiness.

They worked almost silently for the rest of the afternoon, every one of Héloïse’s jokes and lightnesses pushing Marianne further and further away.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Héloïse said expansively, when Marianne suggested they wrap up early, indicating the careful carnage with which they were surrounded. “Look at all our progress! Sterling work! No, we’ll get a fire going and really break the back of it. Come on. We’ve got plenty of kindling here. Enough to spark a decent blaze. Last of the year. What do you think?” She plucked a paperback at random. “‘The Song of Roland’? No? What about ‘Gargantua and Pantagruel’? Half falling apart anyway. Might as well burn it as bin it.”

“Héloïse,” Marianne murmured. “Come on. I’ve had enough. Let’s call it a night.”

“Have you?” Héloïse asked, weighing the volumes. “Or do you object to burning my father’s books, now?”

Marianne raised her eyes carefully. “You asked me to do that,” she said, her voice very calm.

“Oh, I know I did,” Héloïse emphatically agreed. “And I am suggesting that we burn some more of them.”

Marianne shook her head, firmly. “No,” she said. And held out her hand. “We’re going home. I don’t know what this mood is. But I don’t recognise it. And I don’t like it.”

“Don’t you?” Héloïse asked, and stopped, her tone just this side of genuine. “I’m trying to make the best of a bad situation.”

“I know,” Marianne said softly. “And you don’t have to any more. Come.” She flexed her fingers. “Please.”

Héloïse stood, as if in something of a daze, walled about by impassable towers of books. She wavered. “I’m sorry if it’s uncomfortable for you,” she said, her voice brittle, as if she were drunk, and trying not to sound it. Neither of them had touched a drop. “I just want it to be over.”

“And it will be,” Marianne promised. “But not tonight. And not by burning everything. Come on. I fancy Pad Thai. Do you think that place delivers?”

The heightened mood followed them home, like a junkie. There was something delirious between them, flared, like a blown pupil glaring into all their anxious spaces, and Marianne did not know how to calm it, did not know how to bring it down.

Waiting for their food, still overshadowed, she reached deliberately for the photo album. She began flipping through the pages, lying on the bed, feeling Héloïse’s stare on the backs of her hands, hot as a blowtorch. She was careful not to react. She only kept turning the plastic sleeves, one by one.

“You could have waited for me to offer,” Héloïse muttered. She had been sitting on the beanbag, picking at her thumb for twenty minutes straight, frowning, silently stewing. Marianne could see the fingers from where she was. There was blood.

She closed the album carefully. She held it out, a request, an invitation, back into the bed, into the intimacy that had somehow deserted them. “Please?” she asked.

And it had taken another moment or two. Before Héloïse had clambered on, collapsing herself rigidly into the shoulder, the waiting arm, joint by reluctant joint. She took the album, opened it, spanning the spine between their two hips.

“That’s me,” she said. A baby, much like any other. Fudge-faced and wrinkled, black cub eyes glittering. Page after page of her; orangey prints with rounded corners, floral wallpaper and puffed sleeves. “Mummy,” she stated. The woman, on whose chest her baby-self was splayed, exhausted and radiant, beaming into the camera with a proud terror. “Mummy again.”

Marianne turned on the bed, just slightly, so their angles were more equal, pressed in, inhaled Héloïse; her gorgeous warm body smell, the smell of their laundry powder, of her deodorant and sweat, her shampoo, scalp, skin, the smell of books, of active hands. It made her weak, that smell; had wired her brain for sex and comfort and sleep and happiness. And them. Them both. Them together.

“Oh, that’s my Grandma Blanchard,” Héloïse said with a little start. “Doesn’t she look like Mummy?”

“Yes,” Marianne agreed. The curls. The straight eyebrows. The weary eyes, hiding fire.

“I don’t remember her. She died when I was two,” Héloïse murmured. “And there’s Grandpa. Hiding, as usual.” A sloped, out of focus figure, leaning in a doorway. “He hated cameras.”

Marianne took hold of one side of the album, so they were sharing it at last, and gathered Héloïse’s freed hand into hers, raising the thumb to her mouth, kissing the skin very softly, where it was raw and torn. Héloïse curled her fingers just slightly, squeezing, knowing. “That was their house,” she said. A pebbledash bungalow somewhere sunny. One spiked palm tree in the garden, a little caravan on the drive. “Torbay.”

“Is it nice down there?” Marianne asked. “I’ve never been.”

“The sand is red.”

“We should go.”

And Héloïse’s nose was in her hair, just for a moment. A breath in her chest that was deeper than the others; her next utterance a tired sigh. “And there’s Daddy.”

Héloïse was older in these pictures, perhaps just three, her hair grown wavy and blonde, her legs chubby, round, and ready to grow tall. She was already recognisable. The serious mouth, the eyes, large and concentrated. Scooped nose. Dark brows. And the man holding her, laughing as he turned her upside down. “Daddy.” Carried her on his shoulders. “Daddy.” Dangled her by the ankles. “Daddy.”

There was a picture, taken from just behind, as if the photographer wanted to remain unnoticed, of the two of them sitting in the leather armchair, the one from the flat; little Héloïse on her father’s knee and the unicorn below. They were reading a picture book together. Nothing special. Bunnies and numbers. And in the next picture, they were hand in hand, wearing matching welly boots, ankle deep in the water meadows, waving at cows.

Héloïse shut the album very suddenly, turned her head into Marianne’s hair again, burying her mouth.

“Have I been rotten all day?” she whispered.

“No,” Marianne replied.

“Promise?”

“I think you just got tired.”

“I love you.”

“I love you too.”

“It will get easier, I promise. Once I get this done. Once I just… I just need to get it done. Scrub it all clean. And then it will be better.”

“It’s okay.”

“I promise it will.”

“We’d like to offer you the job.”

Marianne could not speak for a moment. She did not know what to say. Or why she felt immediately like crying. Miss Blanchard’s face was sincere and open. It was just the two of them, in the study, with coffee.

“Thank you,” Marianne managed.

“Unanimous decision,” Miss Blanchard said with an encouraging smile, “in case you were worried. No undue favouritism.” That nearly sent Marianne over the edge, a dark wedge beaten into her throat, and Miss Blanchard watching the effect of her words with a calm, marked lack of surprise. “Other than you being the best candidate for the job, of course.” Marianne had to take a good few gulps of air, staring at her shoes, waiting for it all to settle.

“What time is it, Miss Blanchard?” she asked softly. “Can you tell me, please?”

Miss Blanchard tipped her head on one side. “Three fifteen,” she replied. It was almost a question.

“Oh, what a shame,” Marianne whispered in a rush, her eyes still fixed on the carpet. She had seen it in a photograph, something from the album. Héloïse’s train set following the pattern around the edge. “You are still my manager for… for…” but she couldn’t get through it; had suddenly to take a deep breath. She felt as though she might be choking.

Miss Blanchard looked at her over her coffee cup. “What’s the matter, dear? Tell me.”

Marianne raised her eyes, her mouth hanging open, trembling. “I don’t know what to do,” she confessed.

Miss Blanchard put her cup down, sat back, and folded her hands across her stomach. “Yes, you do,” she replied, her eyes kindly and sad. “You know that you should accept.”

“But, Héloïse. She can’t…” Marianne hesitated, and the realisation of the previous days tumbled out of her all at once, complete, and horrible and utterly certain. “She’s so unhappy.”

Miss Blanchard, leaned forward, put a steadying hand out, touched the arm of the chair.

After a moment, she said, “You know that she adores you?” The word took Marianne quite by surprise. It was too much. It felt like too much. But it had been uttered so simply and easily. How could such a monumental thing be said so quietly, by a woman wearing pedal pushers and trainer socks? It did not seem plausible. “She talks about you,” Miss Blanchard went on. “Constantly. She respects you more, I think, than anyone she has ever known.” She sat back again, heavily. “But she grew up watching two people that she adored and respected, compromising and compromising themselves, until at last all of that adoration and respect was gone.” She smiled, a little lopsidedly, as if to keep the full force of feeling from spilling. “There is affection, still. And loyalty,” she said, before fixing Marianne with a pitiable stare. “But you do not want to live with her loyalty, Marianne.”

Marianne’s eyes brimmed over. “No.”

“No,” Miss Blanchard agreed. “Then, you know what to do.”

“Yes.”

“Do you need time?”

“Just a little.”

“Take it, by all means.”

“Just to talk it through.”

“Of course,” she said. “Go.”

And Marianne jogged away from the office, tears streaming, in search of Héloïse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The opportunity for thoroughly silly Otters merch lives on! By popular demand, the Otters netball logo made its sorry way onto redbubble, so you, too, can cheer heartily and blandly. Not for profit. Just for fun:
> 
> [Here be Otters Hoodies](https://www.redbubble.com/people/Shorts84/shop?asc=u&ref=account-nav-dropdown)


	24. Jodie

They sat in the Hive, thigh to thigh, looking out over the low field, the sun winking off still dewy grass.

“They offered me the job.”

A soft, happy smile. “Of course they did. You’re amazing.”

A pair of swifts were arcing through the chilly blue sky, tiny and muscular, their movements whip fast. Come all the way from Africa to enjoy the mild, English summer; to nest above a cricket field, in a small, damp paradise.

“I’m going to accept.”

“That’s wonderful.” Héloïse took in a deep gasping breath, frowned at her knees, asked in a quavering voice, “So, why are we crying?”

Marianne reached blindly for one of the hands, clutched awkwardly, drew it into her lap, sealed it between the twin clam shells of her own palms, holding tight.

“Because you should too,” she said quietly. “Accept your offer. From Cambridge.”

“No.” She felt Héloïse sag beside her. “I can’t.”

“Yes.” She was turning, holding, bearing up. “You must. You will always regret it if you don’t.”

Fierce. Adamant. “I will never regret choosing you.”

“Héloïse.” She could be so stubborn! Marianne was laughing, despite everything. Stubborn and glorious and wrong. “Yes. You will. And much sooner than you think. I’m already one of them. I’m already a part of it when you need me to be; when you need the excuse.”

“You’re not.” Héloïse hissed, her eyes screwed tight shut. “You’re not. I’m sorry.”

“I am, though,” Marianne said, stroking the wavy hair. “I am. And so should you be, if you really meant to stay. You would grind yourself to powder, my darling, fighting it forever.”

“But,” Héloïse protested. “Afterwards.” The air sliding into her in gulps. “I couldn’t just come back. They’d fill my job. They’d have to.”

Marianne ran her thumbs over the heavy eyebrows. “You’re brilliant,” she whispered. “Brilliant! You could go anywhere. Teach anywhere.”

“But, you’ll be here.”

“Yes. I will.”

Héloïse looked at her carefully. “And you wouldn’t,” she asked, faltering, as if her voice already knew the answer, even if her body had to ask, “you wouldn’t come with me? To Cambridge?”

Marianne cupped her face. “If you asked me to, you know that I would,” she said. “And you also know that it would be just as much of a mistake.”

The hands rose, took hold of Marianne’s wrists. “Yes. It would,” Héloïse agreed. “You would resent me. And I…” She gripped her lower lip. “I…”

Marianne helped her, gently. “You would lose your respect for me.” Héloïse couldn’t even say it. She dumbly nodded, ashamed but honest, and Marianne laughed, her fondness welling into a deep, pearled lake. “Dropping everything for you, running after you; that isn’t ever what you wanted from me. Or for me.”

“No.”

“No.” Marianne kissed the tormented forehead, held her lips there for a long moment. “It’s only hard because it’s real,” she murmured, and the hands gripped her tighter. “It’s only a year. And Cambridge…”

“It’s not here.”

“No. But we’ll get through it. And we’ll be the better for it. And we can face afterwards, afterwards.”

“But, I want this,” Héloïse whispered. “I want all of this.”

“Me too,” Marianne murmured back. “But we were so lucky, weren’t we, to have as much of it as we did?”

Héloïse put her head to Marianne’s chest for a moment, stared out at the fields which stood ready, waiting for the children to return, for term to begin. For slides, and slips and spills and breaks and laughter and shouting and tears. Knowing to expect all of these, because they had seen them all before, because they were part of everything, and there was nothing so terrible that had not already been suffered, and mourned, and survived.

“Will you stay with me?” Héloïse asked. “While I call them?”

“Right now?”

“I’m scared I’ll change my mind, otherwise.”

Marianne nodded. She found herself smiling suddenly as Héloïse scrambled upright, reached for her pocket. “Don’t tell me you’ve actually got your phone on you.”

Héloïse looked over at her, her eyes, full, but peaceful. For the first time in a long while, they were peaceful. “I’m going to have to start, aren’t I?” she replied, finding the number. “Text like a normal person.” She smiled. “Miss you like crazy.”

They walked back across the playing fields together hand in hand.

“I don’t want to lose you,” Héloïse said.

“I don’t want to be lost.”

Their fingers squeezed, and no more was said. They swung their arms together, watched the sun’s soft light skate over the dappled brick of the main building, the green of the lawn before it, and felt more truly contented than they ever had before. Héloïse drew Marianne’s arm easily through the crook of her elbow as they approached the curve of the drive into the car park, and Marianne kissed her shoulder, and they did not disentangle at the sound of a car’s smooth approach. Why should they? They were bound closed now, with no space left between them for uncertainty or shame. The vehicle swept before, them and neither of them so much as blinked at it.

“I’ll need to talk to Mummy,” Héloïse said.

“Do you want me there?” asked Marianne.

“No,” Héloïse replied. “No. We’ll need to talk about you. A bit.”

“I wish I had that,” Marianne said softly, but not sadly. “Someone to talk to. About you.”

“Really? What would you say?”

Marianne smiled, into the smug, knowing expression. The playful eyes. “Everything,” she said. “A lot.”

Héloïse tugged her arm closer with her own. “She’d love that,” she whispered. “Mummy would.”

Marianne felt unaccountably touched. “You wouldn’t mind?” she asked. “Us sharing you?”

Héloïse smiled back, her expression serene. “I’m working on a few things,” she said.

There was the sound of a car door away somewhere in the car park. And then, a cry of alarm.

“Brandon! No! Brandon, come back here!”

The name, at first, did not alert either of them. But at the scrabble of claws on tarmac, and the shape of the spaniel, brown and white, stubby tail whirling, Héloïse and Marianne caught one another’s eye. Not alarm. Just acknowledgement. A pause between them, and a slow rise of surprise, and blood. The dog circled them, snuffed their trousers at a rate of knots, blinked up with terracotta eyes, before setting to them, haunches high, demanding play.

“Brandon!” Mrs Postlethwaite’s voice. Of course it would be. Of course. She was standing by the open door of her Land Rover with a hand on one hip, as if the dog were a tardy child. “Here! Daft animal.”

Marianne’s face burned at the memory. The hillside. Héloïse. Her soft heat. Her hand. Her voice. “ _Do you want me to_?”

Never wanting anything more. Héloïse. So right, so absolutely necessary in the moment, feeling she might have died had she not. Had they not. Fucked against a tree in broad daylight. Jesus.

“ _Are you close_?”

Had she cried out? Marianne could not remember. God, she hoped not. But she usually did. She pretty much always did now. Stupid.

“ _I have never. Anything more beautiful. All my life._ ”

Stupid. Reckless. Clumsy.

“ _I think we just about got away with it._ ”

From the outside.

The dog lost interest when neither of them seemed inclined to play, and charged off towards the long banks.

“No! You could have caught him!”

“Good afternoon, Henrietta,” Héloïse called, her voice untroubled, calmly drawing Marianne with her on their steady path towards the upper school, arm in arm. “Is he yours?”

“Carl’s. Damn him,” the woman replied, watching the hectic progress of the dwindling white shape. “And I’m in these shoes. There. Jodie. That’s what you get for letting him in the front. Go on.”

The girl was in the passenger seat, legs dangling over the side. She had grown over the break, short as the time had been, and her long face was serious and watchful, eyes fixed on Marianne and Héloïse, on their arms, and their nearness. Her stare was a question.

“Go on!” her mother urged. “Just put him back in the car. I’ll be in the office.”

Jodie slid off the car seat, dropping onto the tarmac, trainers slapping, her gaze never wavering.

“He won’t listen to me,” she said dully.

“Well, don’t go then. He’s an idiot dog, and we’ll be well shot of him when he gets out on the road, won’t we? Of course, your father will be devastated.”

Panic crossed the young face, and Marianne, cursing herself but unable to stop, squeezed Héloïse’s arm, released herself from its grip. “Come on, Jodie. I’ll help,” she said brightly. She turned to Héloïse, saw the small smile, fond and proud. “Will you be okay?”

“Yes, of course.”

“I love you,” she murmured instinctively.

And the face froze for a moment, before surging open into a grin, the eyes lifting, grey in the afternoon light; grey and glorious. “I love you,” Héloïse called back, her voice stronger. Louder. More definite. It had to be, because Marianne was already walking, towards the car, and Jodie and the distant fields and the errant animal.

And she felt herself smile, helpless, at the sound, and her cheeks glow pink and her ears flush. And she only checked her blatant elation at the sight of the little girl waiting by the bumper, solemn as an undertaker, at the glare of the mother’s narrowed eyes. And at the memory of a sunny hillside; mortifyingly beautiful.

“Come on, Jodie,” she called over her shoulder, jogging across the main playing field. “Find him a good stick or something.”

“Why isn’t Miss Godard helping?” Jodie asked sullenly. “If she’s so good at running?”

“She’s busy,” Marianne replied. She had seen the dog barrel into the thicket of bushes by the Chalk. There was no way out to the road over there. Should be easy enough to coax him free.

“She’s always busy!” Jodie shouted. “She never liked me.” She had a high, child’s voice still, which cracked, and shrieked a little, although in other ways she had changed beyond recognition in the months since Marianne’s arrival; since the paint water, and Charlie.

Marianne sighed. “That’s not fair,” she replied diplomatically.

“She never did! And she definitely hates me now, anyway. After the…”

Marianne turned, demanded, “After the what, Jodie?” The girl sank onto one hip, her mouth pursed, her eyes furtive. And we all know everything, Marianne thought, and we none of us say it, because saying something out loud, throwing sound into the waiting air, makes it real, terrifyingly real. More real, even, than letters folded into paper, because a sound cannot be burned away. Marianne walked on, desperately weary, wanting Héloïse’s hands, her gruff patience. “She’s your teacher,” she replied. “She cares about you.”

“That isn’t the same thing.”

“Come on, Jodie.”

“Why do you like her?”

Marianne could not do this. Not today. Not when she was full to brimming with everything already. “We’re going to lose your dog,” she said, “if we don’t hurry.”

“He’s not mine,” came the stark reply. “He’s Daddy’s.”

“So you don’t care what happens to him? Not even a little bit?”

“He makes Mummy very angry,” Jodie declared.

Marianne laughed, exasperated. “Well, she doesn’t seem like much of a dog person, to be fair.”

“I’m not talking about Brandon!”

Marianne breathed. There. And not even a tiny bit surprising.

The dog as it turned out, was well and truly ready to be caught.

“Come on, sir,” Marianne sighed, as she beckoned him from the holly bush into which he had surprised himself, leashed him up, enduring the sniffs and muddled licking. She led him back onto the playing field, where Jodie waited in a sad sulk. The dog’s haunches wiggled with rasping delight on catching sight of her, hauling Marianne behind him as he strained and wrenched.

She was sitting on the field, in her pale trousers, knees drawn up and arms around them. Marianne let Brandon mob and fuss the girl for a moment, before she sighed, and sat down next to them both.

“Are you okay?”

“I live just over there, you know,” Jodie said, her voice arch, nodding to the slope, the forget-me-not sky. “Over that field. I know the village and the water meadows and the hill just as well as anyone. I go there all the time.” Marianne glanced at her, uncertain where this was headed. Jodie looked up with fierce eyes. “It’s my home too,” she declared at last.

“It’s not a competition,” Marianne replied gently, exploring the outrage. “It’s Sophie’s as well. And all her baby cousins’, isn’t it?”

“She swans about as if she owns the place.”

“Who does?”

“Miss Godard!”

“Who says that, Jodie?” Marianne asked her sternly.

“Well, doesn’t she?”

“No.” Marianne looked at the girl carefully, tempered her tone. “No, she doesn’t. And, if you ask me, it’s a funny thing to be competitive about: coming from the same place. Being similar people.”

Jodie’s head whipped around. “We’re not the same,” she said hotly.

“Well,” Marianne said, with a sad smile. “I’m sure she’d agree with you. And she’s been wrong about that sort of thing before.” They sat in a rigid silence. “Do you want to talk to me about home, Jodie?” Marianne prompted. “If you wanted to talk to someone about it, you know, you should. It doesn’t have to be me. I know your brothers and sisters are older.”

“They’re Daddy’s,” Jodie whispered.

“There aren’t sides,” Marianne murmured. “You’re old enough to see that. Just people, doing what feels right. And getting it a bit wrong sometimes.”

There was a quiet pause. “Daddy can’t be bothered with me,” came the quiet voice.

“Do you really think that’s true?” Marianne asked. “Or is that just how it feels?”

There was a long silence, into which Brandon was breathing enthusiastically, wondering what everyone was watching for; hoping, perhaps, that it was something important, like rabbits.

Jodie murmured, at last. “He doesn’t try to help me with anything. He doesn’t take an interest. He doesn’t encourage me.”

“But your mother does?” Marianne filled in softly. “Your mother does all those things?” There was a slow nod, a blank rotation of the head around motionless, thoughtful eyes. “And when she encourages you,” Marianne asked, “can you tell her what is and isn’t helpful?” The nodding froze. “Does she listen to you, Jodie?”

“Sometimes.” When Jodie spoke again, after a long pause, her voice was high and quiet. “Daddy wants me to board during the week. He says Miss Blanchard agrees with him.”

“Does she?” Marianne asked. “And why do you think she might want that for you?”

“Money? I don’t know.” The reply had been waspish. “With these people, it’s usually about money.” Jodie fixed her with an interested look. “Why do _you_ think?”

“I think,” Marianne said carefully, “that it’s important to have a balance. To have the space to concentrate on your studies; the freedom to enjoy your friends, to enjoy school; to be there for your family, without all of it, or any of it becoming too much.” She smiled. Jodie was playing with the dog’s ears, looking more like herself. “Maybe Miss Blanchard thinks you stand a better chance of finding that balance, if you board. Just during the week. Just for next year.”

“I only have one year left,” Jodie said, looking over the fields, towards the home that was so near and so distant.

“And next term,” Marianne said softly. “Don’t forget. Summer term. Lots of things to look forward to. Rounders. Sports day. The fête…”

“Will you be here, next year?” Forceful. Direct. Her own person suddenly.

Marianne answered her. “Yes.” It was the first time she had told anyone other than Héloïse. She hadn’t even told Sophie. The admission made her feel light-headed. Strange.

“And will Miss Godard?”

And there was the core of the strangeness: the fact that the two confessions went hand in hand, and even this child could see it. “No,” she said.

She could see in Jodie’s face that she had failed to keep her feelings in check.

“Don’t worry,” Jodie said, and again her tone had slipped into artifice, as if she were experimenting with someone else’s words. “It’s probably just a phase.”

And Marianne felt the shock of it, felt it deep in her chest and the palm of her hands. But saw also the little girl playing with the dog’s long, floppy ears. And she suddenly had to laugh.

“No, Jodie,” she said deliberately. “It isn’t a phase. And saying so was very rude. Come on,” she said, hauling herself off the ground, determined to change the subject. “Let’s get him back to the car.”

They walked in silence for a while, Jodie glaring at the ground, Brandon’s lead tugging over her wrist, pulling it into white wrinkles. At last, her face crumpled into confusion. “Why was it rude?”

Marianne sighed. “Because it implies that the other person doesn’t know themselves, their own mind, their own feelings. Cannot see themselves clearly. And that’s quite a patronising assumption to make, isn’t it?”

“They say it to me all the time,” Jodie muttered. “My family.”

“You’re growing up,” Marianne said. “You’re changing very quickly at the moment. And when someone you’ve known all their life does something you don’t expect, or behaves in a way you don’t recognise, it can be easier to call it a phase, and hope that it goes away on its own, than to address it.”

Marianne was waiting for the push back, for the denial and the outrage, when Jodie said quietly, “They’re all changing too.”

They shut the dog in the car, leaned against its gleaming flanks in the warm sunshine, smelled summer coming in wafts of cut grass, and watered earth, and hot brick.

Jodie said, in a voice that sounded hopeful, “Will you be taking rounders?”

“I think so,” Marianne replied. “Mrs Badger’s ankle still isn’t quite better. Do you like rounders?”

There was a hesitation. “Well. It’s not really a sport,” came the stilted reply. “It’s more of a game, isn’t it?”

Marianne put her head back and chuckled. Someone else’s voice, again, older and more cynical, barging out the girl’s opinions with their own. She could hear it now, clear as day, a note of dissonance, and the clarity was like relief. Jodie watched her laughter with close confusion as Marianne gathered herself. “But do you _like_ it, Jodie?” she asked, steadily.

Jodie appeared to consider. “Yes,” she conceded. And then, after a long pause, “I like it better than netball, actually. You can sit in the sun, and think about things. And it doesn’t seem to matter very much.”

Marianne smiled, her hands in her pockets. “And what things do you think about?”

“Makings things,” came the automatic reply. And then after a pause, a gentler affirmation of the instinct. “I really like making things.”

Marianne closed her eyes, put her head back again, felt the warmth. “Me too,” she said.

She heard Jodie’s voice. “I thought of a title for the photograph, by the way.”

“Yes?” Marianne asked.

“I want to call it, ‘Leaving the Garden’.”

“Then you should.”

“Maybe we can take some more next term.”

It had not been quite been a question. Not quite a request. But perhaps that would come with time. “Maybe,” Marianne agreed.

Later, she and Héloïse were sitting in the studio, considering the portrait. They were sitting on one of the work tables, hip to hip. They hadn’t spoken much. Or not in sentences at least.

As she had come in, Héloïse had whispered, “Done.”

“All right?”

“Mostly.”

“And her?”

“Not surprised. Not really. But sad. A little.”

“Oh?”

“For the school, I think. And herself, of course. And you.” A kiss. “Very sad for you.”

“Well, this is your last chance,” Marianne murmured, “if you think anything should change. Kids come back tomorrow and the paint’s almost too dry to play with.”

Héloïse looked at the canvas, leaned into Marianne. “I think it’s stunning,” she said quietly.

Marianne beamed, surprised, in spite of herself. “Do you?”

“It’s almost,” Héloïse said, “almost painful for me to look at. Like it’s been wrenched too far open. You can see too far inside.” A nuzzle of the blonde head. “But, I suppose, no-one else will think that, will they?”

“Maybe, they will,” Marianne murmured to herself. “I hope they will. I think that’s what she was scared of, in those other portraits. Looking invulnerable. Inhumane.”

Héloïse had her forehead on Marianne’s shoulder, eyes averted both from the canvas, and from her love, and the yawning judgement of the still room. She seemed to be staring into the weave of Marianne’s jumper, eyes wide. “How is it that you see her like that?” she whispered.

“Because that’s what she showed me,” Marianne said.

A quiet pause. “Why can’t I see her like that?”

Marianne put her arm around the arched shoulders, running her hand up to the back of the neck. “Because you’ve always needed something different from her,” Marianne said gently. “Something to push against.”

“I don’t want that any more.”

“I know.”

“Is it too late, do you think?” she asked, sounding terrified.

“It is, if you never try,” Marianne said, kissing the top of the messy head, breathing her in.

Héloïse asked quietly, meekly. “Do you have plans for me this evening?”

“Many,” Marianne replied. “Why?”

“I was just wondering. If Mummy wanted to come to dinner, whether that’s something that might work. With your plans.”

Marianne almost laughed. “No!” she said emphatically. “No, it certainly would not. But my plans can change.”

Héloïse was already smiling, already leaning her backwards onto the table, defying the bend in the metal legs. “Can they?” she asked, her tone teasing.

“Well,” Marianne replied as she stretched out, “postponed, at least.”

“You’d do that?” Héloïse asked, kissing her, lightly teasingly, on her cheek and lips, under her jaw, on her neck, as Marianne giggled. “For me?”

And Marianne could never quite tell, even as she clutched Héloïse closer, tighter, what made her whisper, “Do you really doubt you’re worth that?”

But it echoed throughout the evening, over dinner and drinks, in Héloïse’s thoughtful glances, and her mother’s awkward charm.


	25. Summer

That summer term seemed to belong to a different age.

It was a game, played by kinder rules, to a slower watch; luxurious, forever stretching itself into glowing evenings, and almost endless, luminous twilights.

The children returned to school in their summer uniforms, blue checked pinafores and grey shorts, and almost magically the weather obliged with gentle sunshine, warm breezes. The rain, when it wafted over the hills, seemed wonderfully soft and cool, a release, spattering over the dry cobblestones and parched flower beds, unleashing all the glorious earthen fragrances tamped down by heat.

Héloïse began taking some of her classes in the quad on sunny days, the children sitting on the cobbles and walls with outstretched legs, cardigans tied round waists, jumpers discarded into tumbled heaps. Marianne would bring their coffees out a little early on mornings when she was able, and watch from a distance as the children acted out plays in Latin, squinting at their glowing pages, blinding in the summer light. Héloïse wore open necked shirts now, sleeves rolled up, hems loosely tucked into cotton trousers, her pump shoes forever being kicked from bare feet, toes flexing in the fresh air.

And Marianne had never loved her so fiercely; seeing the peace which had settled over her since Easter, like the sudden greening of new leaves. She was shrouded with life. Nor had Marianne ever desired her so readily as she did over those slow weeks, watching the skin on her face and neck colour, the forearms become darker than their fine hair, her nakedness become deliciously contrasted, shockingly pale in places, nutty brown in others.

“Like the light has painted you,” she whispered, tracing the gradation at the back of her neck, down onto the wide shoulders where the soft down of her skin showed brilliant white.

“It’s had a good old go at you too,” the happy raspy voice came back, accompanied by deliberate palms. “All the way up your arms.” And slow, sure fingers. “Your legs.”

“Rounders,” Marianne replied. “Lots of rounders in shorts.”

A contented laugh. “I should come and watch.”

“You really should.”

The art block was becoming somehow quieter and busier as the term went on. Even as the evenings grew lighter, and warmer, the studio was used less and less as a refuge from the weather, and more as a refuge from revision and exams. The space took on a cloistered feeling, full of seniors not quite ready to be juniors again, not quite ready for the jump. They would reach for the felt tips and wax crayons in their free periods, and draw cartoon characters and skating labels in the reassuring quiet. They would stare at the still life arrangements, at the art work on the walls, and seem younger and older all at once as their thoughts spread out from them, larger than ever before, like lily pads engulfing a lake. The completed portrait in the corner, too, became a focal point; almost a meditative relic for the seniors that visited. They would stand before it, arms folded, for minutes at a time, absorbed by the brush strokes, the illusory interplay of colour and dimension. Jodie had stared at it for a long time one break and declared it, after much consideration, to be “lifelike”. As entrance exams drew ever nearer, and their visitors grew noticeably more nervous, Marianne made sure that she or Sophie was always on hand.

Or Miles.

Miles had been making appearances.

His arrival was gradual at first, and a little shocking. When he and Sophie had been actually dating, he had never so much as shown his face in the art block, never darkened the door. But come the summer term, he would stick his head into the studio almost daily, to ask if they needed anything. His offers of help were always nondescript, but genuine and polite. When accepted, he followed through with quiet competence, and when refused, he would smile, but never linger.

After a few days of this, Marianne collared Sophie.

“What’s going on?” she asked.

“No fucking idea,” Sophie replied, folding aprons for the wash with the brisk, irritated movements of a flustered matron.

“You two aren’t back on?”

Another two aprons, wrestled into submission. “Nope.”

“And he hasn’t,” Marianne paused, “broached the subject?”

Sophie shot her a pointed glare. “Not with me.”

“Then, what?”

At last, Sophie exhaled deeply, wearily, one fist on her waist. “He’s going back home,” she said softly. “At the end of the summer. To New Zealand. I suppose it’s that.”

“And?”

“And,” Sophie said, “I think he wants to make it right. Not get back together. Not make it go away. Just… make it right.”

Marianne nodded. “Good for him,” she murmured. Before checking herself. “He’s not annoying you?” she asked. “Or pestering? Because you know I will tell him to fuck the fuck off.”

Sophie had raised her Bambi eyes, thoughtful and serious. “No,” she said. “No, he’s not annoying me.”

“Would you tell me if he is?” Marianne insisted.

“No,” Sophie replied immediately. “I’d tell Héloïse.” And sparked up a radiantly naughty smile as she said it. “I think he’s scared of her.”

Héloïse had laughed. “Is he?”

“So I gather.” They were sitting on the quad wall together, tucked a little out of sight, drinking coffee in the warmth of the morning and huddled close.

“But, when we talked,” Héloïse said with a bemused smile, “I was… I mean, I was only…”

“Ruthless?” Marianne suggested.

Héloïse grinned, a laugh caught below her throat that she could not hide, certainly not from Marianne. “I was going to say ‘firm’,” she insisted.

“Ah, yes. Firm,” Marianne agreed. “Firm, like the baseball bat.”

The seniors were jumping for the beam. They had started in earnest a week or so into the term, following in the hobnailed footsteps of so many who had gone before them. Like keen-eyed birds, suddenly flocking together for migration, the feeling had descended almost silently that this was the thing to do, and that now was the moment to try, or the opportunity would be lost forever. For some, of course, it had been easy. Callum had managed it at the beginning of the year, to nobody’s surprise at all. But still, it became a ceremony every morning break, for a small gaggle of year eights to try, and try, goading each other on. By turns, they mocked and encouraged and cheered. The quad reverberated with the ringing of the beam, and the squeals of laughter.

“Esme’s got it,” Marianne murmured, resisting the urge to clap.

“Good for her.”

“She's a lovely kid.”

“She’ll do well.” There was a moment’s pause, Héloïse blinking into the steam of her mug, not saying something, over and over. At last, she murmured, “Will you do this, next year, do you think?”

“Watch them jumping?” Marianne asked.

“Have coffee,” Héloïse went on quietly, as if she had not heard. “Out here.”

Marianne felt her stomach dip a little, an ache drop hard into its deepest pit, bulbous and thick. No Héloïse across the quad; just a wide, uninviting gulf. And in the classics room beyond, a stranger. But she would not, could not indulge the feeling. Not when they still had time.

“In the wind?” she joked. “In the drizzle?” She nudged Héloïse’s shoulder with her own. “Might be a little sad, don’t you think?” And Héloïse’s expression creased into that uncertain smile; the one that broke Marianne in pieces. “Besides, I think I’m going to try to cut down,” Marianne went on, keeping her voice as even as she could. “On the caffeine. Don’t know what came over me this year. My intake has been through the roof.”

Héloïse laughed. “So,” she asked, her voice cheeky, “you were always humouring me?”

“Humouring you?” Marianne repeated, pretending outrage. “Humouring? I was _wooing_ you. I was pursuing you, madam.”

“Were you?” Héloïse asked, mocking and incredulous. “And there was me thinking that I was the one courting you.”

Marianne sipped at her coffee, disguising her blushes. “Oh, and you did,” she muttered under her breath. “You courted me so good.”

Georgie Rafferty caught the beam, swung wildly like a monkey to the cheers of the assembled children, launched himself into the midst of their hooting laughter.

Héloïse asked suddenly, her voice very gentle. “What will we be? When we aren’t this any more?”

“We’ll always be this,” Marianne answered. “This is part of how I love you and that isn’t going to change.”

Héloïse appeared to consider. “Is it strange,” she asked at length, “that part of how I love you might be chips?”

“No,” Marianne replied, smiling, her voice low. “No, that’s exactly as it should be.”

Héloïse did come and watch some rounders games. She sat with the batting team as they waited, and chatted away to them, and made daisy chains and cheered. And she was so beautiful that it made Marianne hurt, physically hurt, not to be able to run over and kiss the top of her head, where the wavy hair sprung loose and messy and golden in the sunshine.

“You have nature on you,” she said later, as they walked back to the art block, picking one little flower out of the bun at the back of the head, catching the scent of sunny skin above the shirt’s collar.

“Oh, leave them be,” Héloïse said. “Or Emilia will be disappointed. She said they suited me.”

And Marianne had carefully replaced the flower, above and behind the ear.

“She was right.”

Later that night, there were daisies on the bed, daisies caught in the tangled hair, trapped between Marianne’s grasping fingers, as they kicked off the sheets and arched together in the sweat and the dim light. Héloïse, face pressed into a pillow, her mouth open, the hair plastering darkly to her neck like vines; Marianne, kneeling, tugging at the sheen of her, back and back, into her own thighs, belly, breasts. Closer.

“Has it changed for you?” Héloïse asked her afterwards, rolled over and cuddled in.

“What?”

“Sex.” Still a little breathless. “Is it different?”

Marianne hated lying. And she never lied when they were like this, bared and defenceless, and trusting. She could not begin now; not with daisies on the sheets, and the smooth planes of Héloïse’s face catching the light, like an altar at sunset.

“Yes,” she said guiltily. “Not in a bad way. It just feels… more. As if there’s more that I need for it to mean, more that I need to say with it. And I’m worried that it doesn’t and I can’t.”

Héloïse answered, stroking her hair, “You do.”

“You could tell, then?”

“Yes.”

“Was it bad?”

Héloïse laughed, softly, the blush still cresting over her cheeks and throat, staining her mouth, gleaming in her eyes. “No,” she mouthed. “Never. Just. More. Like you said.”

And Marianne suddenly had to kiss her, trembling, on lips that were already so soft, so warm and loose, as if with the sleep that was bound to follow soon after. “I don’t want to make it difficult,” Marianne whispered. “It’s never been difficult.”

“You aren’t,” Héloïse insisted. “It isn’t. But,” she went on, more softly, her hand wavering a little, “I think my body is clinging on to you. I want to store you up, in all my nerves, in my skin’s memory. I want you in the picture of my eye; your hands at my root and heart. And I know that, even when I should be holding you up and adoring every facet in the instant, I’m putting pieces of you aside. Hiding them away, even from myself. To tide me over. For when you’re not there.”

“Not yet,” Marianne whispered. “Please, not yet.”

“No,” Héloïse agreed. “It’s too soon.” She laughed, glaring down at herself, still flushed with blood and wanting. “But my stupid body’s doing it anyway.”

Both of their stupid bodies became ever more demanding, as time went on, even as their minds settled. They would seek each other out in spare moments, instinctively pulling towards one another, sometimes meeting on the paths between classrooms, or coming up from the playing fields. And they would laugh and blush, as they had done right at the beginning, and hold hands, and not mind. And they learned to store up the feeling of need, to let it charge them, until the power of the word, “Later,” whispered in the heat of the day, became almost unbearable.

Their haunting of one another’s classrooms in the evenings became so regular, that Miss Blanchard would come and look for Héloïse in the art block in the first instance, rather than in the Latin room. One evening, as she watched Marianne varnish the completed portrait, the headmistress glanced over to where her daughter was doing her marking.

“Classics Corner,” she had laughed.

And Héloïse decided to embrace this rather than be annoyed, and pinned up an S.P.Q.R. poster above her chair.

That poster stayed in place for years. Even as the art work changed around it with the oblivious regularity of the seasons, the poster remained, and was never questioned.

Héloïse started coming to camera club ever more reliably. Because she could. Because that argument was over and fled into irrelevance. And it seemed outrageous, now, to stay apart, when they had the option to be near. She would arrive straight from scholarship prep, and it became one child’s job every week to ‘catch up Miss Godard’ so that she would know what they were all doing and how it all worked. With waves of an almost unbearable affection, Marianne would watch Héloïse’s patient concentration, being awkwardly tutored by small, quickened hands and scratched voices, checking this detail and that, frowning and letting herself be guided. And then Marianne would shrug in the face of Héloïse’s pointed glares when no-one else was looking. “It’s a good teaching tool,” she said. “If they can explain it to someone else, it means they have really understood.”

“I would rather it was you,” Héloïse murmured in reply.

“You’re doing fine,” Marianne answered, standing next to her, so close that they could feel one another without touching. Deliberate; dignified. “You don’t need me.”

Héloïse murmured with a smile, “I beg to differ.”

Ever the perfectionist, she first decided that her camera was ready to take a photograph only after weeks of crafting and fiddling and tweaking. She set up the shot from their preferred coffee spot on the quad wall, carefully placing an apple in the foreground, over a scene of the distant classrooms.

Jodie was watching her, arms crossed. “What are you doing?” she asked, with an undisguised disdain.

“Seeing how it handles close-ups,” Héloïse replied calmly.

There was a scoff from the girl. “It has no lens,” she declaimed. “Everything will be in focus. Obviously.”

Héloïse had straightened, folded her arms, observed the girl. “Is that right?” she said, her tone over-bright, lips pursed.

“Yes. But you have to open the pin hole without wobbling,” Jodie explained, her brash voice retreating gradually beneath the unwavering gaze. “Which is really hard unless you weigh it down. Miss Godard.”

“Interesting. I did not know that.” From where Marianne watched, she could see Héloïse actively curb her own temper. She stood aside with a controlled inhalation, indicated her camera deferentially. “Would you show me, Jodie?”

The girl’s face reddened. “I’m a bit busy,” she muttered defiantly. But her own camera, photographing a dandelion clock in the long grass, still had another ten minutes to run and, as a year seven, she was conspicuously unfettered by revision notes.

“Please,” Héloïse had reiterated. “You seem to know what you’re doing.”

Marianne watched Jodie sidle over, reluctant. “Do you have any keys?” she asked, holding out an expectant hand. “That would work well.”

Marianne heard Héloïse say, plainly and lightly, “Let’s think of something else.”

“But they’re the perfect weight,” Jodie insisted. “What’s the worst that could happen with a bunch of keys?”

“They’re sort of important,” Héloïse pointed out.

“Do you think I’ll lose them or something?” Jodie suddenly flared. “I’m not an idiot, you know.”

“Jodie.”

There was a huff, and a hum between them. “Fine.” Jodie stomped off into the art block. She was gone perhaps a minute, when she returned with something small and solid in her hand; a little pot of paint, still sealed and heavy with liquid. “This will work.” It was the Altar Gore. She popped the pot on top of the camera. “See? You have to be able to access the cover easily.” The girl stood back. Squinted up at Héloïse. Waited. “Aren’t you going to open it, then?”

Héloïse raised her eyebrows, but uncovered the pinhole obediently as Jodie looked on. She could have gone to sit back down, Marianne considered. She could have gone straight away and left Héloïse to it. But she didn’t.

Instead, she took a deep breath and said, “I built a tile into the bottom of my latest one. Keeps it steady.”

And Héloïse, bless her, leaned back on the wall. “Really? That sounds like a good idea,” she said. “Does it work?”

Jodie nodded vigorously. “Really well,” she said, with the unashamed self-congratulation of a twelve year old. “Much steadier. There were some left over from them doing up the kitchen. Exactly the right size. I just had to make the box strong enough.”

“To bear the weight?” Héloïse asked. A quick nod. “How did you manage that?”

And Jodie started talking, about thickness of card stock, the surface area of the tabs, and types of glue. About trial and error and eventual success. About creating a tin foil pinhole, so the depth of the card would not interfere with the precision of the aperture. And Héloïse was listening intently. And this child would never be a model. Never in a million years. And Marianne smiled into the grass, and let her attention slip away, listening to the spark of something better light between them.

It was a good few minutes before Héloïse drew near, and sat in the grass beside her. They were just out of earshot of their students.

“All okay?” Marianne murmured.

“When were you going to let me make a fancy weighted camera?” Héloïse asked under her breath.

Marianne laughed through her nose. “When you’ve made a simple one that works,” she said.

“Well, if you had helped me,” Héloïse began, raising her head with that smile that looked like a challenge.

“Well, if you had joined in earlier,” Marianne shot back.

And suddenly, they heard the tanging sound of metal, and their heads raised as one. Jodie must have wended away from the group unnoticed. She was jumping for the beam. Over and over. Just short of holding every time, but slapping deliberately, violently, as if the noise of the metal and the sting on her fingers were part of the point.

“Hmmm.” Héloïse was frowning, her noise of discontent just low enough to have been discernible to no-one except Marianne.

“She’s still a year seven,” Marianne commented. “She’s got time.”

“No. She’s in my shot,” Héloïse replied softly, her eyes flaring. “And she knows it.”

They watched Jodie jump for the beam a few more times, catching in the silence between them some of the vindictive fury of the act, which seemed to go wholly unnoticed by the rest of the club.

“What did you say to her?” Marianne asked sadly.

“Why do you always think it’s about me?” Héloïse replied. But Marianne was silent enough that she went on defensively. “It doesn’t even affect her.”

“Héloïse.”

At long last, she capitulated. “That I don’t know whether I’ll ever come back to Otterbourne.”

Tang. Tang. Tang.

All the way down the classroom corridor, shoes skipping, jacket flapping open. The life bubbling up out of her, to the sound of percussion, of fireworks, to the night’s heartbeat. Away into silence.

Marianne leapt to her feet, as if the panic she was feeling were a nest of ants she could escape, that she could brush away. “Jodie!” she called. “That’s your timer.” It was a lie. But she couldn’t bear it anymore. Héloïse must have caught something in the tone of her voice, in its flutter.

“What is it?”

“In fact, everyone, that’s the wind picking up a little. So, let’s close up. Probably long enough.”

“Marianne?”

She couldn’t reply. Not now. She needed a moment. One of those moments of calm, cold honesty; with herself; with her feelings. But Héloïse was there, right there and asking and it was too much. And when, with her head down, she had led the group back into the studio, and from there sent the first pair of pupils with Sophie down to the dark room, she still couldn’t. Not until the patient eyes were the only ones left in the room, and even then, not there.

She grasped the hand, so warm, so familiar to her now, drew it away with her, past the portrait, through the French doors, and along the gravel path.

“Where?”

Through the archway, into the chapel gardens, where the earth smelled rich and full of life, and the regimented trees were budding, and the greenhouse smelled of tomato plants and the damp. And she backed herself against the table, to feel something secure, and took Héloïse’s face between her hands and closed her eyes, and spoke very fast, because maybe fear could be dispelled that way, like opening the cage door and ducking.

“Never coming back means something different to me,” she whispered. “Very, very different.”

“I know.”

“And I just suddenly got scared. That you would go. And there would be nothing. Ever again.”

“I know.”

“I have dreams, when I’m calling out to you.”

“Marianne.”

“And you never turn.”

“Marianne.”

And they were kissing suddenly. To reconnect. To reassure. That they were alive, together, here. That this improbable, ordinary miracle was theirs. And Héloïse was pressing Marianne back against the table because closer was clearer, and because inhaling, and warming, and feeling mouths and hearts and breath and blood was all part of it.

And it was just a kiss; that’s all that it was. But it was also life, proving itself, straining against the dirt for all it was worth, into the light, towards the sky.

They heard the little noise at the same instant. Barely anything. The slap of a foot on a paving stone. And yet they both turned, as if attuned not to the sound itself, but to the shock beyond it.

And they looked out to see the little face, wonky through the angled glass. The expression of surprise. And uncertainty. And the sudden turn, dashing footsteps, the blue cardigan fleeing through the arch and away.

“Jodie,” Marianne gasped. “Shit.” And for a long moment she could say nothing else. “Jodie.”

Héloïse’s hands were at her face, holding firmly, her voice low, definitive.

“Marianne?” she said. “It was just a kiss.”

“But she saw us.” She could feel the rising dread, the humiliation, the memory of laughter and lewd remarks, of hand gestures in friendless hallways. Shame blasted up through her like a dizzying green flare. “She saw.”

“I know.” Héloïse was bearing her up, by the waist now. “It’s embarrassing. But we were just kissing.”

“What the hell do we do?”

“We go. We find her. We apologise.”

“Christ.”

“Say we should have been more careful.” A shy smile. “Say that we love each other very much.”

Marianne’s hands tightened in Héloïse’s hair. “Yes. We do.”

“We do.”

In the steady eyes, Marianne caught just a pinprick reflection of her own shame, hiding beneath all that strength, all her calm resolve. “Héloïse. I know. I know, you tried to make sure this didn’t… Right from the beginning, you…”

And Héloïse kissed her cheek, murmured in her ear. “You are not a fraction of my age,” she said. “Neither of us is married. And we were not having sex. Now. Let’s go and grovel.” She took Marianne’s hand, squeezed it tight, began to lead her away. “I mean, it’s a bit funny, when you think about it.”

Chastened, cowed, they picked their way back to the art block.

The French doors into the studio were open, still, but wider than before. Like a broken jaw, they had been wrenched backwards, as if someone had launched themselves aroundthe bend by the handle. The gravel was scraped into a brown arc, a dirty scar in the ground, and Marianne caught the air of wrongness, of something rotten in the walls. She quickened her pace, rounded the corner to find Sophie standing in front of the portrait, Miss Blanchard’s portrait. Her back was towards them, but she was very still.

“Sophie?” Marianne called out. And when the figure turned, moved back, just an inch, the painting was revealed.

“I found it like this,” she said, her voice perfectly flat, her face ashen. “Marianne. I was only gone for a moment.”

Glossy, red paint had been flung across the canvas, across the face, into the eyes. It dripped down, viscous and shining, over the shoulders, chest, arms, and into the lap. And on the floor lay the little pot, mostly empty now. A smear on the linoleum, of a paint designed to look like blood.


	26. Emergence

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ANNOUNCING A NEW UPLOAD TIME FOR REMAINING CHAPTERS:
> 
> Thanks to being back at work (small woo!) the final chapters of Far from the Tree will be uploaded at 19:00 GMT on Wednesday and Friday. Thank you for you patience.

Marianne lunged for the paper towel, tore at it, flung scroll after scroll of it flat across the table.

“It’s water based, isn’t it?” she said. Nobody answered her. “Sophie! Is it water based?”

Sophie picked up the little pot.

“Yes, I think so.”

Marianne grabbed the canvas. “Héloïse,” she barked. “Please! Help me. Face down.” Quick hands came to her, steady, silent. They supported her together, Miss Blanchard’s portrait, above the bed of paper, watched the gleaming gobbets dangle and drip, spotting down, sickly slow.

“Is that the worst of it?” Marianne asked into the steady pattering, her voice tripping over itself. “Is that it? Is that?”

“A little longer,” Héloïse murmured.

“Can we look?”

“Not yet.”

They turned her, Sophie clearing the paper out from underneath, laid her down gently in the light. Marianne unrolled a new fistful of paper towel, made to soak up the remaining pools of paint, to wipe them away. But she hesitated, held back from smearing it further into her work, into those hours of labour, into the varnish, only just dried. Maybe dried.

“I can’t,” she whispered.

A hand covered hers, stopped it from shaking. When had she begun shaking? Héloïse’s voice asked her, “Do you want me to?”

And the immediate realisation cracked apart; that she was the only one who could. Without fear. Without guilt. “Yes.”

Héloïse took the wad form her, pressed it over the canvas, watched the pattern of the bloody mess spread under her hands, lifted again. Marianne hissed as she saw the black tendrils dangle from the paper.

“More towel,” Héloïse muttered. And Sophie obliged with the whole roll, watching wide-eyed and green, as Héloïse sopped, and dabbed, and mopped over. “Water?” she asked Marianne at last.

Marianne nodded, hardly able to look. The face of the painting was smeared scarlet, disfigured, the stare seeming suddenly vacant, unresponsive, lying prone under glaring fluorescence. “Just the tiniest, tiniest amount,” Marianne mumbled, her hand covering her mouth. “Just on a corner. Just…”

“Do you want to?” The offer was gentle, deferential.

But Marianne had to shake her head. She could not have begun. So, Héloïse took the paper, barely damp, and pressed it to one corner, just to see. Just to see if it might. The image beneath came up clearer than it had been, but left a pink mist behind itself, and blue fibres catching in the canvas.

“The paper is shedding a little,” Héloïse said softly. “But the water should work, I think. If we just…”

“Stop,” Marianne said. “Stop for now. We’ll damage it. Just…” She sat down heavily. “Just stop.”

She needed a moment, to mourn, to be enraged.

“Why would she?” she hissed into the cavern of her arms. “Why the hell would she?”

Héloïse’s hand was on her back, heavy and still. And Marianne was just about to shrug it off, because it was not enough, because she needed more or nothing, when all at once she was engulfed, draped in Héloïse’s body, like a heavy cape folding over her, sliding over her back and shoulders and chest, and Héloïse’s mouth was pressed into the cradle of her neck. “I don’t know,” she heard whispered. “To hurt all three of us? I don’t know.”

Marianne hung her hands from Héloïse’s forearms, the blinding shower of panic winked out into a dreadful calm; one, pulsing flare arcing into a limitless abyss. “On the hill,” she said gripping hard. “That day.”

“There was no one to see,” Héloïse insisted, but her vehemence confirmed only that the horrible thought had occurred to her as well.

“It was her dog,” Marianne said. “What if…”

“There was no one.” And Héloïse’s lips were on her ear, and her voice was in her hair. “No one else. Just you and me. It was just us; just ours. I promise.”

Miss Blanchard’s face was stony. And unwavering. And very tired.

“I have been through the wars,” she said, staring at the gory mess. “Haven’t I?” She turned to the two of them; the three of them really, as Sophie had refused to leave. “Is there any proof that it was her?” she asked.

“No,” Héloïse said. “None at all.”

“And what was it that she saw you doing?”

“I was kissing Marianne,” Héloïse answered. “In the greenhouse.”

“Why?”

Marianne felt her face burn.

“Because I was struck by the sudden terror of mortality known only to those who have found love,” she wanted to say. “And your daughter understood completely, because she understands me better than anyone. And her understanding is at the core of both my love and of my fear.”

“Because we really, really like each other, Mummy,” Héloïse replied, and her tone was withering.

“Well, that was idiotic,” her mother snapped back. “The pair of you. What were you thinking?”

“We weren’t,” Héloïse replied.

“Clearly. Typically.” She fixed her daughter with a glare, one that could have turned her inside out, flipped her like a jersey for the laundry. “Was that all that you were doing?” she said, in a brittle tone. “Héloïse?”

“Yes.”

Her mother insisted. “Do you _promise_ me?”

“I do.” Héloïse’s reply was very quiet, terribly dignified.

Marianne could not match her. “That’s all it was,” she choked out, her face radiating misery.

“Well,” Miss Blanchard breathed. “I did think that you might have had more sense, Marianne,” she chided, before turning back to her daughter. “And you, Héloïse,” she said, “I had hoped that you might have _learned_ more. After everything. I did hope.” She turned away, swept past like a chariot. “Sophie,” she barked, “come with me please. Let’s sort this muddle out, if we can.” And Héloïse’s stare after her mother was livid and bruised.

Alone in the studio.

“It’s nearly ten past,” Marianne whispered.

“Yes,” Héloïse confirmed, unmoving.

“You’re taking prep.”

“I love you.”

Marianne stood, the stool scraping back so loudly that it was like something tearing apart. She held Héloïse’s face in her hands, the perfect angles of it, the soft hollows and tight muscle, the sublime necessarily made flesh, because neither marble nor paint could ever capture such gentle fury.

“You’re not him,” she said.

“Doesn’t matter,” murmured Héloïse, her eyes downcast. “It will confirm everything she’s ever suspected.”

“No,” Marianne whispered. “She knows. She’s furious. But she knows, I swear.”

They were still standing like that when Sophie returned, however many long minutes later. She knocked. She never knocked.

“There were paint spatters,” she said softly, not wanting to interrupt. “On her shoes.”

“Jodie’s?”

She nodded from beyond the doorway. “Miss Blanchard is calling her mother. She wants a meeting after prep. With both of you.”

Prep was interminable. Never had forty-five minutes passed so slowly. Héloïse had marched off to the dayroom, defiantly upright, like Joan of Arc in French cuffs. Marianne, on the other hand, had collapsed in the art room, with Sophie and the painting, all separated by tables and by silence.

“Will they retract their offer, do you think?” Marianne asked. “Will they fire me?”

“For a snog?” Sophie frowned. “Can they do that?”

“I don’t know.”

“My mother had me read my contract aloud before I signed,” Sophie said. “From beginning to end. And I’m pretty sure that snogging was never mentioned.”

“It’s more complicated than that.”

“Only in your head,” Sophie told her. “You’ve made it out to be this huge thing.”

Marianne indicated the portrait with a quivering hand. “So has Jodie,” she growled.

Sophie tipped her head on one side. She said, “Jodie’s dealing with a whole bunch of huge things right now.”

Marianne felt herself bridle. “Something else that everyone knows?”

“Yes. At an age when everything seems huge anyway.”

Her friend was having to be patient. And Marianne hated herself instantly. She took a deep breath. Gathered her hurt into a manageable bundle. Stashed it away.

“I knew her parents were having problems,” she admitted.

“Her parents should have never got together.” Sophie’s voice was devastatingly calm. “But they’re both too stubborn to admit it. They were the affair which wrecked his first marriage, and the only way to justify themselves was to pretend they were the real deal and hunky dory and happy families.” She shrugged. “And they’re not. And everybody in the village knows it. Imagine how it must feel, as you grow up, to begin to realise. That you’re just the cherry on the cardboard cake.”

“She’s a little girl.”

“She’s the only real thing about that marriage,” Sophie stated. “So, of course, they’re fighting over her. Squabbling over someone is probably the only way of loving that she knows.” She caught Marianne’s eye, and murmured. “Don’t make this about you.”

Marianne was carrying that advice with her, cradled in her gut, as she walked into the lower school.

This isn’t about you. Don’t make it about you.

She waited by the dayroom for Héloïse to finish prep; listened to the heavy thump of her angry stride as the bell sounded; avoided the steady stream of departing pupils which heralded her furious coming. She greeted the blank expression, the haughty shape when it emerged, with a smile, and with nearness and extended fingers. They were taken and squeezed and released in the same movement.

“Okay?” she asked. They walked side by side, the hallway emptying around them.

“I love you.”

“I love you too,” Marianne whispered back. “But are you okay?”

There was an icy silence. “So angry I could cry.”

Marianne felt something escape her own chest that was halfway between a sigh and a sob, because she knew. She knew instinctively, and completely. Just as Héloïse had understood her fear in the greenhouse. And she reached sideways, without looking, to find the seam of Héloïse’s shirt, and held it for a brief moment as they walked; to feel the warmth of the waist beneath, to gauge the passion radiating through every pore.

“Don’t be angry,” she managed at last.

“Aren’t you?”

“I was,” Marianne acknowledged. “I was a lot of things. Now, I’m just sad, I think.”

And she felt blunt fingers, fumbling at the fabric at her hip, grasp for an instant.

“Your grief gives you so much strength,” she heard. “Do you know that? You can see it in others, without being afraid.”

“So can you.”

A firm shake of the head. “No. It terrifies me. I want to mend it,” Héloïse paused. “Fix everything. But with grief,” she whispered, “that’s trying to fix the cold from winter.”

They were outside the office, leaning on the panelling. Waiting by the pool tables. And Marianne found that she could smile, here, amid the echoes of all their other memories. “You don’t really get cold,” she said softly.

“I do, though,” Héloïse confessed, with the shadow of a blush. “That was a big old lie.”

“Trying to impress me?”

“To convince you to stay.” Her face was bashful, and ever so lovely. “Of course I get cold. I just hide it well.”

“As with many things,” Marianne whispered.

And this time their hands reached at the same time, and found one another, and held tight, filling all the hollow spaces between them, like roots, hunting for water, threading in their multitudes.

“So many things.”

The little group, when they came, passed them both on their way to the study; Jodie and Mrs Postlethwaite; Nigel awkwardly shepherding them.

Nigel. Of course.

Miss Blanchard would not be able to handle this without her deputy, Marianne realised, given Héloïse’s involvement. Perhaps, she could not be associated at all. This fiery, compassionate, brilliant woman had been rendered almost powerless to help one of her own pupils, her own charges. By their actions. Marianne’s gut dropped a little further at the thought, overfilled to sinking by a sudden gale of shame.

As the group passed, Jodie caught sight of them and halted, stumbling against her mother’s steering hand.

“All right, Jodie,” Nigel encouraged. “We’re all just going to have a talk about what happened today. Come along.”

They limped by. At the study door, Jodie’s eyes dropped to her shoes as they waited; to the tiny, tell-tale speckles of paint on the black leather. She was pale, and obviously nervous, as Nigel knocked, and opened.

Through the frame of the doorway, Marianne could see Miss Blanchard sitting by the fire, resolute and motionless, her portrait brought to glowering life. But the child would not look up at her to be mortified. Nor at Nigel, holding the door so kindly. Nor at her mother, clinging to her, close as outraged ivy.

Instead, she looked again to Marianne. To Héloïse. “Are you going to come in, too?” she asked, with hopeful hesitation.

Her mother scoffed, eyeballing Nigel, as if the suggestion had been his. “You cannot be serious!” she declared. “You cannot possibly expect her to say it out loud with them present.”

Nigel mouthed defensively, appealing to Miss Blanchard to come to his swift rescue. “Of course not, Henrietta.” She marched over to the doorway, quit her study, made way for them. “We will leave you to it, for now.”

“No!” The cry had come from Jodie.

“Sweetheart,” her mother swooped. “You have to be able to tell it the way you told me.”

“It came out all wrong, though,” Jodie said, her eyes flicking between her shoes and Marianne and Héloïse, frowning hard, battling tears. “When I told you, it all came out wrong.”

Marianne reached for Héloïse’s hand instinctively. “We should go,” she murmured. “It isn’t fair.”

Héloïse nodded once, put a reassuring hand to Marianne’s waist, made to walk her down the corridor out of sight, to the entrance hall, the dim light and echoing tiles, and the photographs, and all the silver shadows of Héloïse. Marianne felt the heavy, warm palm rubbing the plane of her lower back. And knew suddenly. That there was a house beyond the garden. And everything would be fine at last.

“I’m sorry!” they heard Jodie say suddenly. They turned. “I’m sorry, I ruined everything.”

Marianne forced herself to smile, even though it ached. “You didn’t,” she said, her voice a little brittle, but she hoped not unkind. “Jodie, it’s not the end of the world.”

“But,” and the frown on the girl’s face softened, “the painting.”

“We can clean it up,” Marianne told her. “It will take work, and care, and time. But it will be okay. In the end.”

And again, she saw in the little girl’s expression a flash of something vast, and close to wonder.

“Come on in, then,” Nigel said again. “Best foot forward.”

Jodie’s eyes were still fixed on Marianne. “Please,” she said, even as she allowed herself to be ushered inside.

The door closed. And the muffled disquiet engulfed the three of them together, Héloïse, Marianne and Miss Blanchard. They were listening. Together, they heard the gradual rise of voices; Jodie’s, and her mother’s, and Nigel’s trying to instil calm. And together, they held back, held on.

Once the volume of discussion had hit a constant pitch of sustainable wrath, Miss Blanchard sighed deeply, and looked the pair of them up and down. Her eye was crisp, judgemental, as if they had been fleeing the scene of an accident.

“I think we should wait in the staffroom,” she said, her lips pursed tight, “rather than just trotting off. Don’t you?”

Through the adjoining door, from the staffroom sofas, they could not help but overhear.

Marianne remembered Sophie’s words. “Don’t make this about you.”

And it wasn’t.

It wasn’t anything about them, she realised.

Nothing at all.

_“But you never listen!”_

_“I do!”_

_“Not to what I’m saying, though! You don’t!”_

_“Jodie! For pity’s sake! Tell_ him _, then. Just tell him what you told me.”_

_“They were kissing.”_

_“And what else?”_

_“Nothing else. Nothing.”_

_“I asked you if they were touching each other before, and you said yes.”_

_“They were kissing! Of course they were touching!”_

Marianne groaned, embarrassment cresting through her like an oil spill. She rolled into Héloïse’s side, buried her face in the collar and the warm neck. She felt the arms encircle her automatically, the safety, the solidity of two, the mouth in her hair.

_“You want to twist it!”_

_“Jodie!”_

_“You want to make it ugly. It’s like Daddy says. You twist and twist things, until they’re all ugly and you can be angry at them!”_

_“Why would I want that?”_

_“I don’t know! You just always need something!”_

Héloïse’s voice, concerned, steady, hummed against her jaw. “Marianne, listen to me,” she murmured. “Are you listening?”

“Mmmph.”

A squeeze of the arms. “We aren’t ugly.”

Marianne heard herself laugh, in spite of everything, pathetically grateful for the distraction, for the levity. “You’re sure we’re not?” she mumbled.

Another kiss, planted on her cheek bone. “Not even a tiny little bit. Objectively, we are quite aesthetically pleasing. Demonstrably bloody gorgeous.” There was the tiniest pause. “Aren’t we, Mummy?”

The sound of coffee being sipped reached them from one of the bay windows, the grind of a cup settling in its saucer. “Very bonny,” said Miss Blanchard distantly, “as silly idiots go.”

“See? We’re bonny, you and me.”

Marianne kissed Héloïse’s neck, sat up, wiped her face. She mumbled, “You’re my favourite silly idiot.” And glanced over to Héloïse, to see a single tear rolling down the pretty nose.

“You’re mine.”

And she knew, without looking, that the figure at the window was watching them. She could imagine the eyes, their chilly, ozone blue, set in an expression soured by disapproval. But when the office door opened suddenly, revealing Nigel’s naturally kindly face warped into a panic, Marianne did glance over to the headmistress at last. And Miss Blanchard’s features were only soft, and creased, and brimming over with worry. As she strode into her office, Héloïse called out.

“Will you still need us, Mummy?”

“No,” Miss Blanchard replied, without turning. “Jodie will need you.”

They were summoned in a little later, when the cacophony had quieted.

Marianne could barely look around the room. She could make out that Miss Blanchard was standing by the fireplace, the pattern of professionalism; that Mrs Postlethwaite was hunched over the desk, leaning on it with both hands. That she stared out towards the lawn and the yew trees and the distant church spire, her back turned.

And Jodie.

She saw that Jodie was sitting opposite Nigel; smudged, and misted, and scarlet, as if every wild emotion that could be cried out of a body had long since been scooped up and wiped away.

Nigel smiled the smile of the survivor. “Jodie wanted to say something to you.”

The little girl’s eyes lifted. “I’m sorry that I spoiled your painting,” she said. “I was very upset. About something else. And I shouldn’t have lashed out.”

“Thank you for apologising,” Marianne replied. “I’m very sorry that you saw us together.”

“Very sorry,” agreed Héloïse. “It was unprofessional.”

“If it makes a difference,” Marianne added, “I was upset about something else as well. But that’s no excuse.”

Jodie’s head rose just slightly, her eyes pin-balling between the pair of them.

“Can I still do camera club? And rounders with you?” she asked. “And… Latin?”

Marianne felt the question hit her in the chest, and Héloïse shift beside her as if struck by the same, double blow.

“We’ll see,” was all she could manage.

“Henrietta intends to resign from the board.”

Later still.

Miss Blanchard was sitting in her armchair, amid the wreckage of the day, her voice mystified. “Jodie should have been suspended, of course. But the last thing she needs is more time in that environment. So, I made it clear I could not take that course of action in good conscience. That we would find other remedies, here.” She pinched the bridge of her nose in the rosy dusk. “And Henrietta decided her position in the school was therefore untenable. Because it would be widely known that her home was too unhappy for a rusticated child.”

Marianne whispered, “Everybody knows.”

“Yes!” Miss Blanchard sighed a keening laugh. “Everybody already knows. And isn’t that just the shit in the sugar bowl?”

The three of them sat a little awkwardly as the evening encircled them, the weight of events hanging between them like curtains of grey velvet.

“What will the other governors say?” Héloïse asked.

Miss Blanchard sniffed. “I really don’t care, if I’m honest. I have the backing of my deputy head, her head of year, the matron staff and, I might add, of Jodie’s father. If the governors want a fight over it, they can come and bloody get it.” She glanced up at her daughter, and then at Marianne. “Consider yourselves officially reprimanded, by the way, regarding your recent behaviour.”

“Of course,” Héloïse said.

“I’d make Nigel do it, but he’s in enough pain as it is.”

Marianne nodded dumbly.

“And extenuating circumstances aside, Héloïse,” her mother went on, “reasonable expectation of privacy is hard to establish from inside a ruddy greenhouse.”

“Point taken.”

Miss Blanchard was staring into the empty fireplace, as if at the memory of flame. “We start interviewing your successor soon,” she said with a studied lightness. “I would so like to be able to tell them, darling, that you didn’t leave the school under a cloud. But maybe that was always too much to hope for. Maybe, it’s to be a family tradition.” She laughed through a grimace, turned her head, gave a pained smile that Marianne recognised. “My lonely little girl. Just waiting for the right moment to thumb your nose at the place, were you? Or maybe, for the right accomplice? Much as you know I admire your choice.”

Héloïse was sitting on the floor, plucking at the carpet, distracting her angry hands. She was battling to keep her temper in check, in the face of silly, trivial injustice, which hid a phalanx of wordless pain between them. They never fought, she had said once. So this was how that happened, Marianne realised: in the ringing silence of heavy inference, too terrible to form into words. You are like him. And that scares me.

Héloïse only asked with a quiet bitterness, “Would you prefer that I was lonely forever?”

“No,” her mother said. “No. But I do sometimes worry that _you_ might. Deep down. It would be something else that you shared. And it is very hard, watching you galloping back towards your loneliness, sweetheart. Mistaking it for freedom.” She put her head against the wing of the chair, with a tired sigh that could have shaken mountains. “It is very hard indeed.”

Later, in their bed, after they had fucked some of the humiliation away, Marianne held Héloïse very close, as she had cried, and cried. She had cried as if enough suffering from her could cleanse another’s shame, could rescue some of the honour of his memory, at least where it lived within her. Where it stared out of her features, and flowed in the river of her veins.


	27. Compromising and Compromising

Half term.

Scorching sunshine hours, and long warm evenings.

A week and a half, ten shimmering days to gather themselves in place, to look out at the world together; to make memories.

Marianne had imagined that perhaps they would walk at every opportunity, toast themselves on the top of the hill, above the humidity, amid the sparrows and the crows, with ice creams from the corner shop, or bottled beer. And they did, a few times. And they sat close in the mottled green shadows, and read, and watched the sky paddling its light in the webbed rivers below them.

But they could not go every day.

There was too much else to do.

There was Sophie, dearly beloved, who seemed halfway into the mourning process already. When the three of them gathered together in the studio, she would be the first to glance around, her eyes overlarge, and suggest they put some music on the speakers, and drink coffee, and talk about the old days; re-reading all her favourite passages of the year, just not ready yet for the final chapter.

Marianne had brought her first portrait into school as requested, still wrapped, ready to be revealed. But Sophie had not yet produced her promised portfolio. It was as if that would be the end of it all; the full stop to the narrative.

“It got you into Bournemouth,” Marianne pointed out. “What on earth are you worried about?”

And Sophie would squirm, and try to change the subject, and tell her to fuck off, until at last she confessed, “I just want to finish this one set of sketches before I show you. But they aren’t there yet.”

Marianne smiled at her. “Some sketches never come out how they live in our heads,” she said. “You have to let them be how they are.”

“I can get them right,” Sophie insisted.

Miles came in to see her every day, after his cricket practice. Sophie always greeted him with unsurprised satisfaction. Held his hand. Pressed close to him as they walked. He had started wearing his shirts nicely ironed and tucked in, and shoes other than trainers. “He’s met my parents,” Sophie confessed. “They like him but. You know. They think it’s a bit of a shame. That we left it this late.”

Héloïse began to claim she could identify his movements from the wafts of aftershave he trailed about the playing fields.

“It’s nice,” she said defensively one afternoon, as Marianne laughed again at the sight of her suddenly flared nostrils, alert expression. “I’m not saying it isn’t nice. It’s just. So. Male.”

“Mother Superior,” Marianne teased her, with a loving bump of the hip as they walked.

“Pandarus,” Héloïse replied.

“I’m what now?”

“You never read ‘Troilus and Criseyde’?” Marianne said that she had not. “I’ll find it for you sometime. It’s hilarious to read out loud. Mummy used to do the Middle English lilty thing with the accent and…” She stopped abruptly. Matters in that department were still not good.

“I’d love that,” Marianne replied warmly, drawing her arm, feeling the soft skin, the pull of sweat. “Accent and all. Sometime.” And she changed the subject.

She thought she might have successfully distracted Héloïse from her mood. But, as they wended their way back to the art block, they happened to see Miss Blanchard embarking on her customary trip out towards the shops. Her face was set, her curls vibrating more than usual as she wobbled away against the weight of her enormous bicycle, struggling valiantly against the gravel and the dust.

Héloïse stopped to watch her mother’s grim progress, forging through the hazy heat, the pollen, the smell of the mown grass, and the distant clap of the cricket nets.

“Woe to him who is alone,” she whispered, “since, if he falls, he has no help to rise.”

“Héloïse?”

“Nothing.”

They walked on in silence for a short while, until they rounded the quad wall.

“Has she never dated?” Marianne asked. “Your mother?”

She expected Héloïse to laugh, to be dismissive, or lightly cruel. But instead, she bit her lip. Wordlessly, she shook her head.

“I suppose she is a busy woman,” Marianne offered. “These days.”

“Very.”

“Leads to a shortness of temper, perhaps,” Marianne suggested. “A lack of patience.”

Again, she saw the hesitation; the tug of reluctant reflection. “I have both of those.”

“You do,” Marianne murmured, pulling her close. “You’re a hedgehog.”

“How dare you!” Said with a smile, but from under the same thoughtful stare.

It was an hour later when she suddenly raised her head from her work and asked, “But hedgehogs are cute, aren’t they?”

Marianne had smiled in spite of herself. “Totally adorable,” she confirmed.

Héloïse nodded sagely, returned to her notes, replied, “So are otters.”

And Sophie had looked at them both as though they were quite mad.

The task that demanded most of their time, of course, was Miss Blanchard’s portrait. Cleaning it. Rescuing it.

Marianne had talked to Abby, emailed several of her old classmates, and even a couple of professors, before she had gritted her teeth, grown a bloody backbone, and phoned Nick.

They spoke for an hour about materials, and technique and supplies, and the risks and pitfalls. At last, Nick contacted his restoration chap for her and ordered some of the right cloths and cotton buds to the school. “They should be with you tomorrow,” he said. “Gentle as you can.”

“Thank you.”

“You still owe me that drink.”

“I do.”

“Bring… Héloïse, is it? If you like.”

Marianne had felt herself smile, even though she doubted it was quite the season for it yet. “That would be nice.”

She had taken the first plunge herself; soft cloth, cleaner, water, minute amounts, tiny areas at a time, drying immediately. It was like reversing a tattoo, drawing the colour away wipe by wipe.

“It’s working,” she murmured, sick with relief.

But the task ahead of her was mammoth, and before even the first hour of her private toil was over, Sophie and Héloïse had pulled up stools, and the three of them had arranged themselves around the work together, and settled in.

They tackled a corner each, inch by cautious inch, fingers creeping over the texture of the paint and canvas like slow spiders. They listened to entire suites and symphonies; went hours without speaking as, gradually, the blood cleared from the patient hands, the vibrant hair, the vulnerable, worried brow.

At the end of one particularly long day, Miss Blanchard herself appeared through the French doors, arriving almost silently, watching them work for a while without speaking. They must have known that she was there, although they all were too preoccupied to greet her. But nobody batted an eyelid or raised their heads from the task when she announced, “I know this piece.”

Marianne said into the canvas, “It’s Jonathan Dove, I think.”

“‘Airport Scenes’,” Héloïse confirmed. “Second movement. My choice.”

“Of course,” Miss Blanchard said softly. “I saw the opera, do you remember? With Daddy. ‘Flight’. We won the tickets in the raffle.” She smiled to herself. “At the Fête Worse Than Death.”

Héloïse glanced up from her work. “Aren’t you legally obligated to call it the School Summer Gala, in your current role?”

“Probably,” Miss Blanchard allowed. “I really should read my contract one of these days.”

“It is all kinds of riveting,” Sophie informed her, helpfully.

A kind smile flickered. “Then, I shall add it to the pile.”

After that, a quiet descended on the room that was mutual but not quite comfortable. Miss Blanchard did not take a seat, and no one continued the conversation to justify her presence. She was simply watching them all, as they fussed over her image, dabbing and dotting and wiping. She was like a lone general on a hill, watching the movement of troops on the field below, powerless to help.

“Is it making any difference?” she asked at last.

Marianne smiled round at her. “You may be just a little pink in places for a while,” she said.

“True to life then.”

“You getting some sun, Mummy?” asked Héloïse, stiffly.

There was a quick scoffing laugh. “Not for the foreseeable future,” her mother replied. “Interviews, and meetings about interviews, and phone calls about meetings about interviews.” She stood clutching at her hands a little. “I need to get back, really. I just thought I would check that…” Her sentence trailed away from her. “I just thought I would check in.”

There was a new quickness to Héloïse. Perhaps no one except Marianne would have noticed it; an angled twitch to the movement of her cloth; an annoyance to the flicker of the eyes, which even Marianne might have thought was angry, were it not desperately insecure.

“Anyone good?” Héloïse asked.

And Marianne flinched on Miss Blanchard’s behalf. Too snappish, she thought with a pang. Too sharp.

But Miss Blanchard did not blink. “Not good enough,” she said. And she turned to the French doors. “Nowhere near good enough. Excuse me.”

“She has friends,” Héloïse said later, lying on the hillside, apropos of nothing in particular, apart maybe from the slow progress of the beer and the delicious lingering heat of the day. They drew contemplation into the evening air, like sweat from warm skin, moisture from cold glass. “Friends in the village.” She swigged, and Marianne felt the lurch of her swallowing beneath her heavy head where it lay, comfortable, on Héloïse’s stomach. She accepted the offered bottle and sipped quietly, waiting for the thought to finish itself. “She plays bridge. There’s a book club she goes to. Used to go to. So, she’s not alone really.”

“Was she a very social person before?” Marianne asked.

“Yes,” Héloïse said automatically. “Very.” She reached for the bottle again. “I suppose, there just came a point when none of their circle knew what to say any more.”

“You’re all so precious round here,” Marianne said with a grin. “Too polite. My dad would know.”

“Would he, really?”

“It wouldn’t be pretty,” Marianne warned. “But he would say it all the same.”

Héloïse laughed. “And what would he say?”

“Probably something along the lines of, ‘Shit’s fucked, babe. Let’s go dancing.’” And she watched Héloïse’s laughter, the beer bouncing in the bottle in her hand. She snuggled in closer, resting her cheek against the swell of her breast, gazing, absorbing, burning into her eye’s lens. “Ah, well. He never had the benefit of a Classical education,” she whispered.

“I like him more and more.”

“He has been pestering me for an invitation,” Marianne murmured. “But his schedule’s a disaster.”

“I think we’d better work something out. Don’t you?” Héloïse said nonchalantly. “Just so I can meet him.”

Increasingly, the days became stifling.

Something about the angle of the sun at that particular turn of the year transformed the studio from a grotto into a furnace. The three of them had to move a table into a still corner of the quad to be able to continue cleaning at all, working on the portrait outside in the airless heat, moving with the shadow of the classrooms as the day progressed.

They weren’t surprised to see Jodie from time to time. She was spending most of her half term with the matrons, according to the village grapevine, and she would trot across the school occasionally, between watching visiting cricket matches with the first aiders, sorting laundry to ‘The Archers’, and politely serving tea.

“She’s doing well, my mum says,” Sophie reported. “Actively wants to board next year. But there’s some parental stubbornness.”

“Understandable,” said Marianne. There was a questioning silence from across the table. “I don’t like the woman,” she went on firmly, “but it must be hard to watch your child’s slow rejection. Easy to feel martyred by it. Like you have to make a stand; or risk being the enemy forever.”

“People should want what’s best for their children,” Sophie muttered.

“Of course,” said Marianne. “But the closest most people manage is wanting their children to be what’s best for them.”

Later, in a quiet moment, Marianne and Héloïse were alone in the shade, gulping glasses of water, stripped down to their spaghetti straps in the heat.

“She never did that,” Héloïse whispered.

“Who?” Marianne’s thoughts were elsewhere, on the potential havoc that a cantankerous photographer could wreak on a country boarding school. And its headmistress. “Never did what?”

“Mummy,” Héloïse explained. “She never tried to mould me. She never tried to convince me of anything.” She was staring out into the smooth-beaten cobbles of the quad, her long arms limp and tired, the tanned patterns on her skin endearingly exposed to the afternoon. “She’s always let me be angry with her, even when it wasn’t fair. She’s never spoken ill of him. Never directly. Not once.” She looked at Marianne. “Why wouldn’t she?”

There were a thousand suggestions that Marianne could have made; pointed to their mutual stubbornness, to their pride, their reticent tempers, their total inability to speak to one another in straight lines. But she obeyed her instincts, and instead suggested, “Maybe you should ask her.”

Héloïse looked bewildered. “I don’t know that we’ve ever talked like that,” she confessed.

Marianne kissed her lightly on the cheek. “Well, maybe you should start.”

The afternoon shuffled towards teatime. Sophie had gone for a well-deserved walk with Miles, “Just to look at something distant for a bit, you know?” she had murmured in a daze. “Take full advantage of all three of the available dimensions.” And Héloïse and Marianne were working quietly together in the peace of the afternoon shade.

They heard the approach of two sets of feet from the upper school at roughly the same moment, and the halting sound of lowered voices. Their eyes met, as they listened.

“And if they say, no, you will have to respect that.”

“Okay.”

“You’re sure you want to?”

“Yes.”

Miss Blanchard and Jodie. Halting at a deferential distance, waiting for an audience.

Marianne and Héloïse. Squinting round from their work, tanned, and tired, and sweaty. Waiting.

Jodie took one step away from the safety of Miss Blanchard, and one deep breath, as if she were about to jump feet first into a cold sea. She asked them, “Can I help?”

Marianne glanced over at Héloïse, and realised that she did not need permission to do the right thing.

“Of course,” she said quietly. “But you’ll have to be very careful. And do exactly as we say.”

Miss Blanchard watched as they settled Jodie in, picked an area for her to work on, and a seating arrangement that meant both Héloïse and Marianne could keep a close and careful eye. Héloïse moved round, as she talked Jodie through the process, settling herself on the near side of the portrait with her back to the sun. Her back to her mother.

And Marianne saw the headmistress’s expression change.

Miss Blanchard was staring at her daughter’s shoulders, tapered and strong, exposed in the summer heat. At the little apple, set into the spine; the apple that Marianne realised with a start she may never have seen before; that she definitely had never seen before: the only other person in the world who would understand.

Miss Blanchard turned from the table with a lurch, an ungainly scrape of shoes. “I’ll leave you to it,” she said, managing to sound brisk.

But Marianne caught the note of shock, of pain. She looked to Héloïse, to her calm absorption with Jodie, the progress they were making. And she rose to her feet.

“Could I have a quick word?” she shouted to the departing figure, following, catching up at a trot.

The look Miss Blanchard shot at her first betrayed annoyance, then realisation, then a guilty hope. “If you must,” she mumbled.

And Marianne guided her into the art block, into the furnace of the studio, where they stood for a moment in the raging heat, not yet having the conversation, not quite ready.

“How quick is quick, Marianne?” Miss Blanchard quipped. “I’m about two minutes from medium rare as it is.”

“Then maybe we should go somewhere cooler,” Marianne said seriously. “I think she will take a little longer than that, don’t you?”

Miss Blanchard paused, gave her an entreating glance. “Will they be all right without us for a while?” she asked, her voice trembling.

Marianne asked her, “Shall we go to the gardens?”

“How long has she had it?”

“I don’t know,” Marianne confessed. “She said ‘at the time’, so I assume it was soon after… after…”

“His suicide,” Miss Blanchard stated bluntly. “You can say it.”

“Yes,” said Marianne carefully. They stood by the apple trees on the far side of the garden, out of the sun, feeling the warmth from the wall behind them, an echo of light.

“Am I a failure, as a mother,” she asked, “never to have noticed?”

Marianne shrugged. “She’s all grown up. She’s careful in how she dresses.”

“I meant her pain,” Miss Blanchard said dully. “I knew she was grieving, but I never knew that she felt… How does she feel?”

“She’s Héloïse,” Marianne said with a shrug, as if this much alone should have been self-explanatory. “She feels responsible.”

Miss Blanchard’s face set hard. “What did he do to her with that bloody book?”

“You never saw?” Marianne asked, guilt coursing through her.

“She never let me. She never let me share… whatever it was. And you won’t either, will you?” Marianne shook her head. “Is it gone?” Miss Blanchard asked.

“Yes.”

“Makes sense,” she snapped. “That’s how she always deals with things: on her own, to the bitter end.”

“She wasn’t. On her own.”

And the eyes softened, and the tone with it. “I am,” she said. “I have had to bear the memory of him, as he was, all alone. No one else remembers. No one else wants to remember, that once he was quick and funny and sweet, and in love with me, and that we built our lives around the sacrifices that we made for one another.” She blinked heavily. “It embarrasses them now. They’ve all decided it must have been a lie, because he told them that it was a lie. And I don’t get a say. I was there too. It was my life too.” She wrung her eyes shut. “But he got to rewrite our history to suit himself. He got to redefine our marriage forever. He got to make _our_ _daughter_ feel the burden of defending him, covering for him. For years. Inked into her… skin.” The first tear rolled down. “And still, he left,” she murmured. “He left _her_. And people tell me that I’m not even allowed to be angry with him for that. Even after everything, from the great beyond, he still insists I be complicit; he demands my pity.” The word was said with a bitter sadness, more painful even than rage. “And I’m the bitch, if I refuse,” she said at last. “If I don’t play along one last time, I’ll be the bitch forever.” Miss Blanchard let the angry breath escape her like a wasp at the window, looked around them, at the calm, the green. “Does she think that,” she asked quietly. “About me?”

“No.”

She nodded once. “Well, that’s a start, anyway.” Pressed herself away from the tree so that the leaves shimmered. “We should both get back to it, I suppose” she said. She began strolling towards the archway, and the quad, and the well-nigh limitless self-control of her professionalism. “Did you know he planted this garden?” she asked, her voice almost back to normal.

“I had guessed,” Marianne answered, following her.

“I asked Héloïse once,” Miss Blanchard said, “how many years she would have to tend to it, before it became hers.” She smiled to herself. “She asked how many cells you have to shed before you become a different person.”

Marianne laughed. “That sounds like Héloïse.”

“Doesn’t it?” Miss Blanchard opened the gate for them both, stood back, for Marianne to leave the garden first. “I cannot tell you how glad I am,” she said haltingly, “that someone knows her like that, again. I think, for a long time, she has felt safer being something of a mystery. But she deserves to be known.”

“She does.”

Miss Blanchard ushered her through with a touch to the arm. “By one of us, at least.”

Something had shifted in the rhythm of the architecture, by the time the evening came. Nigel was hobbling back and forth across the quad, from the upper school to his offices to the workshop and back again. He stopped by the table a few times, to ask whether they had seen Veronica, or Angela, or Brian. And they never had. But a movement was clearly happening somewhere.

“What’s going on?” Jodie asked quietly, her fingers stained pink.

Héloïse had begun looking around herself with wide eyes, like an animal tracking a scent on the wind. “I have no idea,” she muttered, glancing suspiciously at Marianne. “What did you talk to Mummy about?”

“Your tattoo,” Marianne replied simply.

And Héloïse was staring at her, as if a whole conversation could be relayed through will alone, through the light of reflecting eyes. “Oh,” she said.

“I didn’t know you had a tattoo,” Jodie said curiously. “Was it painful?”

Héloïse resumed cleaning, her movements slower, more deliberate, maybe to counter the sudden shake in her hands. “Very,” she said.

“Does your mother like it?” Jodie asked. And there were Héloïse’s eyes again, large and questioning, her face tinged scarlet.

Marianne murmured, “She understands.”

They had sent Jodie back to sickbay, and were packing up the painting for the night, when they heard the doorbell of the main house start ringing and ringing, over and over. It was as if a war had started in a television costume drama, or the king had died.

Héloïse, trying to ignore the rumpus, examined their day’s work intently. “She’s nearly finished isn't she?”

Marianne nodded. The face, chest, hands were clear. Just the tiniest ghost of colour remained in the background. “Maybe we should leave the rest,” she said.

“Do you like it?” Héloïse asked her.

“It’s real,” she replied. “She’s been through something. And it will fade with time. It seems right.”

They walked together into the glimmering evening. The cricket match had long since broken up, but there were still cars arriving into the school, all of them oddly familiar. Héloïse was frowning at each in turn, as they swept past the Master’s house.

“Aren’t they all members of the board?” Marianne asked her.

“Yes,” Héloïse replied distantly. “Maybe. Is the salad from yesterday going to be enough for you, do you think?”

Marianne muttered, “Your mother’s still in her office, look.”

“Because I sort of fancy scampi, to be honest. I’m starving.”

“Héloïse, she’s watching us.”

“We could go to the meadows. Have a paddle.”

Marianne stopped her. “Héloïse.”

“What?” she said. “So, they’ve decided on my replacement. I’m glad. It’s been weighing on her.” She stalked off, hands deep in her shorts pockets. “But I don’t have to be interested.”

They did go to the water meadows. They sat on the bridge by the first gate, and dangled their feet in the water, and ate their scampi very slowly, because every piece seemed somehow precious. They hung their arms over the cross beams, pressing their mouths into each other’s elbows.

And Héloïse was staring, glinting darkly into Marianne’s eyes, when she suddenly murmured, “And though we delay a while, sooner or later, we hasten home. Here we are all bound, this is our final abode.”

And Marianne knew it was a quotation, without needing to be told. “What?” she asked, tilting her head to one side, rubbing her cheek into Héloïse’s arm. “This dusty little bridge?”

“Rude.” And Heloise’s arm was round her back, tugging her closer. “It’s a smashing little bridge and you know it.”

“Was that Orpheus?” Marianne asked at last, snuggled in.

Héloïse smiled at her. “Very good!” she said approvingly.

“I’ve been leafing through your copy,” Marianne shrugged. “I think what I like about it,” she went on, after a thoughtful pause, “is that the reality of the afterlife is never questioned. Orpheus knows that he’ll see Eurydice again. That was never the issue. But it was also never enough. He wants to live with her.” And she was aware of Héloïse holding her closer for a moment. “He does this extraordinary, heroic, mythical thing, just to have the chance at, I don’t know, waking up next to her. And bringing her toast. Squabbling about the bins. Making babies together. Finding their first grey hairs. You know.” She kissed the bit of Héloïse’s arm that she could reach, breathed her in. “All the important stuff.”

“I love you.”

She looked up into Héloïse’s face. And smiled. “I love you, too,” she whispered. “And you have breadcrumbs on your chin. Hold still.”

They walked back through the school, arm in arm, feet bare. They were hanging their shoes from their free hands, swinging the weight of them carelessly. They weren’t really paying attention to much, except that the light was nearly gone, and their hunger for one another had grown steadily and surely, and that the fastest way home would therefore be the best way.

They noticed the figure on the steps of the Master’s house at roughly the same moment. Miss Blanchard was sitting alone, reading a book in the porch light with a glass of wine. She was smoking.

“Mummy?” Héloïse called.

Miss Blanchard looked up, squinted into the gloom. She slowly stubbed out the cigarette on the step beside her. “I was hoping I’d catch you,” she said, not quite meeting their eyes.

“Is everything okay? You could have rung.”

“Oh!” she exclaimed, genuinely surprised. “Do you carry your phone with you, now?”

“Sometimes,” Héloïse admitted, still frowning at the blue cloud surrounding her mother, wafting it away with disapproving hands. “Are you all right?” she asked.

“Yes. Fine. Fine. I…” Miss Blanchard cleared her throat. “There have been some developments. Slightly unexpected developments. Well, not unexpected. But a little unorthodox. A change of plan, anyway.” She sipped at her wine, and her hand quavered. “Nigel and I had a meeting with the board. It looks as though he’s going to be off his sports coaching for quite a while. With his back. For at least the next twelve months. And, we agreed, it would be useful if he could take over some of the administration from me, since he’ll have the free time to do it. And, with that off my plate, it made sense… Well, it occurred to me that… I mean, I have missed teaching.” She might have been pale. It was hard to tell. “You did know I taught Latin. Didn’t you, darling? Before you came along.”

“Mummy,” Héloïse said under her breath.

“It will just be for the year. The board agreed that it would be very cost effective,” she said. “They hardly needed any persuading at all.”

“Mummy.”

“You’ll have to apply, Héloïse,” she said quickly. “If you want it back again. You’ll have to apply like anyone else. I can’t promise. But, at least, it’s a chance. And they know you’re competent, which is more than can be said for some of the candidates we met this week. And they know that you fit. Here.” She smiled, faintly. “They know that you’re one of the family.”

And Héloïse was hugging her mother. Fiercely. Like a bear. And Miss Blanchard’s arms reached up hesitantly to the apple that she could not see, and held her child close.

There was wine spilled on the step, and Marianne was crying a little.

And no one stirred for a long time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah, Airport Scenes. Takes me back to the spotify playlist curated by ridiculousmavis! Tuck in to some storms:
> 
> [Now That's What I Call Atonal Postmodern Symphonic](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/3fPdiEQLH73sqSmaYFLYEP?si=bE3gE0IJRhid9Lp3ZFXPag)


	28. Here we are all bound

“This year,” Sophie murmured.

They nodded, in a slow unison. They were enjoying the shade for a moment, sitting together in the Hive, watching the cars sweep into the school car park and drop the boarders off one last time. They all felt it: the heavy calm preceding thunder, and the following promise of bright, quiet emptiness.

Marianne was reclined against Héloïse, their legs drawn up on the little bench. One, long, tanned arm was wrapped slack across her tummy, solid and sure as contentment. Sophie sat a little way apart, leaning forward, as if ready to leap away.

“It’s been a trip,” she said. “I’m scared I won’t remember half of it.”

“You won’t,” Héloïse replied. “Just the important bits.”

“Are croissants important?” Sophie asked. “Because I feel like I’ll remember the croissants.”

“They’re vital,” Marianne said with a smile. “As are Skips.”

“And Shithead.”

“And Chardonnay.”

“Unoaked, please.”

“Oh, always.”

“And Maryland cookies.”

“Only for emergencies.”

“And sugar paper.”

Marianne laughed, pulling Héloïse’s arm tighter, pressing back against her more firmly, more comfortably. “You know you’re not actually supposed to eat that, Sophie,” she said.

Sophie pouted. “But it _sounds_ so delicious.” She looked out over the fields again, to the slow, hourglass procession of gleaming cars through the school. “I don’t want it to end,” she murmured.

Marianne nudged her with her foot. “Hey,” she said. “Good things to look forward to.”

“I know,” Sophie murmured. “It just makes me sad. That’s all. Things finishing.”

His was the unspoken name that bounced around their conversation. He was taking the register at the front gate; tall, handsome, kindly, and a bit shy. Sophie hadn’t wanted to distract him, but she was looking toward him now, unconsciously perhaps, even though his shape was hidden from them by the column of vehicles.

“There’ll be a sports job going, you know,” Marianne said. “For next year.”

Not a flicker crossed the smooth face.

“No,” Sophie said softly. “I don’t think so.”

“No?”

“He’s homesick,” Sophie replied. “And I won’t be here, anyway. And, honestly, it isn’t like that.”

“Okay.”

“We’re nineteen: made of rubber. It has to be okay to say goodbye, and be sad for a bit. And then, bounce back.”

“Tears. Noise. And a drink afterwards?” Marianne suggested.

“Exactly.”

That half of the term was a blur. Like the exhilarating, dizzying memory of standing on a high diving board, waiting to jump. The impressions both imperfect and precise. The temperature of the handrail. The pattern of wet footprints marking those who went before. The texture of the board under bare toes. A patchwork, remembered in jerks and gasps of euphoria and apprehension and relief.

Marianne remembered.

“Looking forward to Bournemouth?”

She remembered the walk to the art block. Origami on the quad in fifteen short minutes; a regular occurrence now at the beginning of every half, for calming jittery nerves and focussing over-excitement. Some of the children practised between sessions. Marianne wondered if she would be doing this in five, in ten years’ time: teaching cranes and roses and hummingbirds and dinosaurs to small, anxious hands. The thought had made her feel warm.

Héloïse had left them to go and rustle up players for a game she had devised for the evening; a forty-forty manhunt mashup, over three pitches, with multiple bases, and espionage side rules. Her excitement had made her almost giddy. Which of course had dissolved Marianne ever further into honey and heat.

Sophie, walking steadily by her side, grinned to herself, looking suddenly much younger. “I’ve never lived by the sea,” she said.

Marianne beamed down at her easily. When had they learned one another’s paces? she wondered. She could not think. But neither could she remember the last time that Sophie had trotted to keep up with her, or that she had consciously slowed herself down. “Sandcastles and ice creams every day?” she asked.

“Please,” Sophie said. “I am a classy and sophisticated lady now. Sun loungers and Aperol spritz.”

“Okay,” Marianne allowed, “but when Héloïse and I come to visit, can there be sandcastles and ice cream?”

Sophie smiled brilliantly for a moment. And then made a face. “How about sun loungers and ice cream?”

Marianne had to laugh. “Can you imagine Héloïse on a sun lounger for more than thirty seconds?”

“No,” Sophie said smoothly. “But I’m sure you have.”

Marianne shoved her arm. “I am going to miss you,” she said, “you cheeky fuck.”

She remembered the relief. The relief that had swamped them, Marianne and Héloïse, so profound and still and limitless, that they had collapsed beneath its weight over the last few days of the half term holiday.

They had slept, heavily, deeply, waking sometimes in the afternoon, and dozing like lions in a heatwave, making the most of time, working late into the night from a nest of duvets, kissing hungrily as the dawn broke.

“I did not realise,” Marianne murmured one afternoon, lying in their bed, watching Héloïse blink and sag between drowsing, and snoozing, and a contented, mussy consciousness that only lulled her back into sleep. “How scared I must have been.”

Héloïse, eyes closed, had reached blindly for her hand. “It's not a sure thing,” she whispered. She had been saying that a lot; like a safety catch for their joy.

"No," Marianne said, examining the fingers between her own. They were neater these days; healing up gradually, the new skin showing balloon smooth and very pink. “But it is a something.”

And it was; something real, and possible, and believable and good. A smile had spread across Héloïse’s face, dipped in golden light, so that every eyelash was a bow of bronze.

That was a smile she would treasure, Marianne thought to herself. Never so beautiful. Never and always. Safer in her mind’s eye than any camera. “Héloïse?” she whispered. And the “hmmph?” she received in reply more dear to her than the sounds of rain on dry earth, than of birds in February, than of open fires, or rivers. “You’re very pretty,” she said.

Again the smile, the reaching hand, stroking her face this time, her cheeks and lips, the chest expanding with grateful air.

“It was Sappho,” Héloïse mumbled, her eyes still blissfully shut. “‘As the sweet apple blushes’. It was Sappho. Not Ovid.”

“I love you.”

“I know you do. You show me.” One eye slivered open, a glimmering slice of rapid water. “Do you know how I love you?”

Marianne caught the hand, and kissed it, smelled herself on the fingernails and knuckles, just as Héloïse was painted over her own belly and thighs, felt only a deep, unshakable happiness. “Everywhere and all the time?” she guessed.

A solemn nod, and the eye sliding closed once again. “Exactly right.”

“See? You’ve been working on your communication.”

“I have.” Marianne thought for a while that Héloïse had drifted off into one of her dozes, quiet and utterly still, when she heard the wrinkled voice. “I want this,” Héloïse murmured, “for when I’m away. This for emergencies. You and me. And sunlight. And time to be lazy and horny and soft.”

“Me too,” Marianne murmured. “How many visits a month is too many visits a month, do you think?”

Héloïse laughed. “My poor housemates,” she mumbled, rolling over, nearer.

“You’ll have housemates in Cambridge?” Marianne asked, her eyes wide. And Héloïse was laughing as she nodded. “I need a veto!” Marianne exclaimed. “Shit! I demand a veto! They must all be very boring, your housemates. They must all be dull. And plain. And… busy. Very, very busy.”

“And men.”

Marianne collapsed in giggles. “Yes, ideally they should all be men.”

“I love you.”

She remembered Héloïse’s game. Forty-Manhunt. That first evening of term, when both of them played with the boarders. Héloïse had, of course, been in total command. But Marianne found herself flinching. Marianne, not really knowing the rules. Knowing only to run and not be caught. Rescuing as many of her team as she could by dint of her own decent pace. But Héloïse. Hunting her down like a flowing leopard, over and over. Marianne, blushing, finding that the bunched excitement that rammed through her gut as she ran, ran away, but never fast enough, never quite fast enough, was thrilling and familiar. Heloise’s feet pummelling the ground behind her. The sound of her approaching breath. The tingle of the hand reaching out.

“Why always me?” Marianne had grumbled, taken to the base for the umpteenth time. And Héloïse had shrugged.

“Long legs. Only fair.” A grin, flashing ivory, as the light faded.

And later. Out of breath. Voices hiked like knotted t-shirts. “But really, why?”

Eyes like embers, and that same smile. The sky, darkening from blinding blue into rich cream. “You know. Don’t you?” Whispered where there was no chance of overhearing.

“Yes.”

Words mouthed open with no voice behind them. “Because you like it.”

“Yes.”

And another book of them opened. When they least expected. One that they hadn’t even looked for.

She remembered wondering. Was it strange, to still be learning new things about one another; about themselves? Marianne hoped not. It fired her, touched her, to see new facets of the person she already knew she loved, to acknowledge and accept the new desires awakened in herself.

Between the long weeks of classes, of nervous exam invigilation, of cathartic rounders games, and the looming end to the term, they spent their weekends clearing out the flat together. They were more efficient now. Their tiredness and relief made the job into a chore, but not a wrench. They were developing, not dismantling. And amid bouts with boxes and check lists, they would retire to Héloïse’s mattress (Marianne steadily refused to call it a bed) to unwind one another, and explore.

“But it’s got to be done,” Héloïse said drowsily.

“And it will get done,” Marianne replied, the fingers of her right hand still gripped in the pale hair. “Eventually.”

“Not like this, it won’t.”

“This is part of it.”

“We’ll need to get the place on the market before September,” Héloïse replied, still just a little out of breath, “if we want a quick sale.”

Marianne’s eyes had flashed up suddenly, her face glowing. Things were still on high alert. “We?” she found herself stammering. “I mean, do we? I mean.” She cleared her throat. And her head. A little. “Is that what _you_ want?”

Héloïse had looked back at her, nonplussed at first, and then blushing, having been caught out, she mumbled, “You don’t think it’s a good plan?”

Marianne stroked her fingers through the hair, her hands suddenly a little fluttery. “You wouldn’t rather rent it out for the year,” she asked, “have the income, and see?”

Héloïse rose onto her elbow, twisting shyly. “I mean. Maybe? But… I just don’t know how your father would feel about me being… a landlord.” And Marianne stared at her for an instant, before she threw back her head and laughed. “What?” Héloïse said defensively, blushing like a brazier. “I want him to like me!”

But Marianne couldn’t speak, between giggling and wanting to hold Héloïse so much that it hurt, and not being able to move from where she lay for laughing. For the rest of that evening she had dissolved into chuckles just thinking about that beautifully, bashfully apprehensive face, and had to stop herself from humming the Internationale.

The days grew warmer, and the classroom hours began to dissolve and smear as exams concluded, and the weather beat down. And everyone remembering that life was short and these days were rare and precious.

Marianne and Sophie took some of the late classes out into the water meadows with sketch pads and water colours. They tolerated the children paddling after the completion of at least one, determined sketch, and on the promise that they would avoid the cowpats and not tease the herd.

Marcus Thompson, hunkered over his sketch pad like an archaeologist, drew a dragonfly in painstaking detail. Just one. He added a Barnevelder chicken into the background for good measure. But still, Marianne could have burst with happiness.

“It’s wrong to have favourites, isn’t it?” she asked Sophie later.

Sophie shrugged good-naturedly. “Only if it shows. Hey, is that Eric, with the stick?”

“Eric! Don’t poke that! No, I’m aware, and it’s disgusting!”

She remembered Sophie. Announcing one afternoon.

“It’s finished.”

Marianne had glanced up from the pile of reports she had been writing, to see her friend holding the black leather handles of her portfolio, wearing an expression of worry, and of guarded pride.

Marianne had straightened. “Shall we get Héloïse?” she asked.

“Can it be just us?” said Sophie quietly. “For a minute?”

“Of course.”

“I mean,” and Sophie swung the portfolio onto the table, “no. It’s okay. You can get Héloïse. If you want. I just thought…”

“Of course it can just be us, Sophie. It was just us to begin with.”

And there had been the smallest hint of a smile. The breath of relief, as she had unzipped the carrier. “I just want you to see them first.”

There were sketches. Sketches upon sketches upon sketches. Beautiful little drawings, done in every conceivable medium. Pencil. Charcoal. Felt tip. Pen and ink. Little intaglio prints and lino cuts. Of the school. Studies of the teachers, sketches of the children, water-coloured in blue and grey. Pieces of Miles, sketched almost timidly, as if glimpsed in reflection, shoulders, profile, back, feet. And Marianne herself, her short, messy head of curls dipped, talking to pupil after pupil. At the white board. Demonstrating with clay, with potato prints, her tapered hands holding a little black camera. Eating a salad, perched on a stool, like a squirrel. Looking off into the distance with a frown, touching her forehead in that way she did when she hadn’t thought that anyone was watching, or was paying much mind. Detailed, stylised pictures of every building. The proud, strident front of the art block itself, somehow exuding confidence. The hunch of the Hive. The echoing length of the sports hall; utilitarian and blankly strange from the outside. And the open sweep of the quad, with two figures sitting on the flowerbed wall, holding coffee mugs, angled attentively.

And then. They were everywhere together.

Page after page of them.

Héloïse, leaning on the pillar of the art block, insouciant, but curious; Marianne, moonstruck, in the foreground. Héloïse gazing at the palms of her own hands, her eyes wide; Marianne with lowered lashes, tending close. Héloïse in an anorak, slumped from the back, next to Marianne in her Otters sweatshirt. Welly boots and rain and an unmistakable tension between them. Dozens of guarded little moments. Shoulders touching. Profiles and eyes. Hands playing cards. Héloïse’s smile like a fanfare; Marianne’s like a hearth.

“These are beautiful,” she murmured.

“What are?”

Héloïse, standing in the doorway, mirroring the picture in Marianne’s hand so precisely that it was uncanny. She shot Sophie a questioning glance.

“Oh, come on then,” Sophie said. “Just not the Miles ones.” And she gathered them together in protective hands. “He’d be weird about it.”

Héloïse strode over to the table. And gazed at the arrayed sketches. Picked one up, almost at random, of the arch into the chapel gardens. She stared at it in the light for fully a minute, before selecting another, of herself this time, cutting out a camera net, frowning with concentration, her tongue just showing at the corner of her mouth. “I didn’t know I still did that,” she murmured.

“You do,” Marianne said. “When you’re slicing garlic, as well.”

“Well, it’s a tricky business,” Héloïse replied, taking up another picture, this time of three pots of Ben and Jerry’s with a spoon in each. “Is this?”

“Yes,” Sophie said. “There’s a series.”

The three of them, coiled in front of the laptop, bathed in the spectral glow of golden oldies. The view from Marianne’s loo, of the shower and the basin, the room seeming to cower under the weight of its own tiles. A twist of bedding that might have contained a person, or the memory of a person, lined with towels. Four white tablets. And Héloïse, wielding a bottle of bleach like an avenging angel. Héloïse, asleep on the beanbag, like a panther draped across a beach ball. Héloïse, a clinging limpet on the edge of their bed, wearing Marianne as a sleepy shawl.

“It’s the year,” Héloïse said. “The whole year, isn’t it?”

“It’s kind of my diary,” Sophie said. “Which is why I didn’t want to show you. You know. Until the end. And this is the redacted version,” she said quickly, with a nonchalant shrug. “Obviously. I saw what they did to your website.”

“Website’s back up,” Marianne said damply. “Or it will be. The governors insisted. Wanted free publicity for their brand new lady-portrait.”

“Mariannebeaumont.com rides again?” Sophie exclaimed, punching both fists to the ceiling. “YAS!”

“Behind the naughty blockers,” Héloïse cautioned.

“Naughty blockers be damned,” Sophie exclaimed. “She lives! Fucking! Yas!”

Marianne nodded, and had to wipe her eyes a little, and laugh. “Oh God, and now you’ll want to see my first,” she managed.

“Of course,” came the satisfied reply.

“Okay,” Marianne said to herself. “Okay.”

She put down the sketch she had been holding, of Héloïse wearing her netball expression, and walked over to the sideboard.

They were waiting, her first portrait and her latest, nestled close together. She picked up the package, still wrapped in brown paper, heavy in its mount, and laid it flat to pull at the string, to lift the brown paper, startle herself with the familiar image beneath, its closeness, its texture; recognising the old style, abandoned a while back but astonishingly familiar, like running into a relative who never calls.

“Okay,” she breathed. And propped the picture upright. “Here.” And stepped away.

Sophie and Héloïse both stared in silence.

Marianne gravitated unconsciously to the French doors, her hands on her hips, gazing out at a bullfinch that danced boldly along the edge of the garden wall. They were so tiny. She had held one once. It had got into her London studio and brained itself on the skylight trying to fly out, and then again on the floor when it had fallen like a chestnut. She had held it in her hands for fully five minutes, crying her eyes out, feeling the thrum of its tiny heart against her skin, like the quietest snare, willing for it to keep beating.

“It’s you,” Sophie said at last.

“No,” Héloïse corrected quietly. “It isn’t.”

She had taken it down to the yard, and blown on its pink feathers until it came to. “Oh.” Until it had righted itself, stared at her for a long moment, and flown away.

Héloïse asked, her voice dry, “Did your father take the photographs?”

“Yes,” Marianne replied. “When they were first dating. He didn’t like seeing them, afterwards. So, I sort of stole them.” She realised she had not turned around, was talking to the blunt-headed bullfinch on the wall, to her breath on the glass, to her own imperfect reflection.

“It’s beautiful,” Sophie said seriously.

“Does it have a title?”

“‘Still Life’,” Marianne replied automatically. Before shaking her head. “I know. There’s really no excuse. But I was only nineteen.”

“Do you want,” Héloïse said softly, “me to wrap her back up?”

Marianne turned at last, finally looked at it, at her, from enough of a distance to be able to tell.

It was beautiful.

And it did look like her.

And those were only two of the reasons why her father could not stand to look at it at all. Just as the waist-length, wild hair of the woman in the picture had been a reason why Marianne had kept her own style short all these years. She remembered how it felt under her hands. Soft. Cool. Bouncy. She liked remembering that; one of the only firm memories she had. She stared at the two portraits, side by side. Héloïse’s mother and her own. Ten years between them, she thought to herself. It was long enough. “No. Leave them like that,” she said eventually. “They should get to know each other, I think.”

She remembered the final report. Héloïse was sitting in Classics corner preparing more handover notes for her mother. She must have heard Marianne’s fingers still on the keyboard, the sudden hesitation, because she looked up, lips pursed, and asked, “What is it?”

“Jodie,” Marianne murmured.

“Oh.”

“Should her report be just about the classroom,” Marianne asked, “or about… everything?”

Héloïse sat up straighter in her chair, clasped her hands. “I included some of the everything,” she replied. “I don’t think it does them any favours not to be direct.”

“She’s come so far, this half,” Marianne said. “And her photography is remarkable, frankly. She has a real feel for it. An eye. Did you see her picture of the problem oak? Eerie.”

“There you go then,” Héloïse said, turning back to her notes. “Negative to positive. Suffering, catharsis and growth. I’ll start you off: ‘Jodie knows she made a bloody mess of the first half of term…’”

“Ha ha very funny stop it,” Marianne replied.

“Not helping?”

“Not really.”

“I love you, though.”

Marianne stared at the blank screen, sighed deeply. “I love you too.” She was staring at the screen, so determinedly that she only knew Héloïse had moved when she felt the kiss on the crown of her head.

“You’ll be encouraging and fair,” Héloïse murmured, her mouth still buried. “And understanding and bright and honest. Because that’s who you are. That’s what makes you a good teacher. And that’s why she needs you.”

Marianne leaned back into the warm chest. “Abby warned me about becoming their friends.”

“I never said you were her friend,” Héloïse said firmly, and squeezed her shoulders once, before going back to her own work. “You’re much more than that.”

Marianne sighed again. Jodie. Jodie Postlethwaite. 7L. Nice. Underneath it all. Marianne reached for the keyboard. “When I first met Jodie,” she began, “we had a talk about the importance not only of apologising for mistakes but of cleaning up after them. This term, we both had reason to remember that conversation. I only hope that I have learned and grown as much from the experience as Jodie clearly has.”

Marianne smiled. Maybe she would not keep it. Maybe she could not quite hit send. But it was an honest start, at least. Towards something better.

She remembered Sports Day. A disappointment, in terms of the weather. A thunderstorm was passing over the county for most of the day, and the wet weather plans were deployed in earnest. It was open season in the art block, for anyone wanting to escape the harsh echoes of the sports hall, and the crowding in the lower school.

“It will be better for the Gala Day,” said Nigel, as if it were his place to promise such things. “You’ll see. Otterbourne will look its best on the last afternoon, the old tease.”

But Marianne had learned, it seemed, to love the rain. And she was missing Héloïse. Héloïse, off supervising whatever sports could be held indoors. Cruelly. Deliberately. Marianne should have been running the three-legged race with her. She was sulking for her.

She put on Vivaldi first. Summer in G minor. Third movement. Appropriate. And then she put on the Richter for good measure.

“Let’s paint a tempest,” she said to the children to distract herself as much as anything. “As wild as you can.”

The weather was battering against the French windows. The lightning forked in the dove grey sky over the chapel garden wall and someone’s little brother ducked under a table crying.

And the school bell rang at last, herald to the loss of all hope, indicating that everyone should take their children and go early. And Marianne strode out into the rain, to wave off the cars, all of the cars, every single one.

When they were all gone and there was no mistaking, she sent a text. “ _Where are you?_ ”

“ _By the pavilion. Putting some kit away._ ”

“ _Stay there._ ”

Charging down to the cricket field as if her life depended on it. Grabbing Héloïse by the wrist where she was waiting obediently, pulling her inside, where the low room smelled of leather and sweaty gloves and shoes and grass cuttings. Shutting the door. Locking it. Reasonable expectation of privacy. Pushing her against the wall, as the rain still fell darkly outside, and kissing her, tasting the rain on her skin, the remnants of chapstick, of the orange she had eaten.

“Oh, hello!” Murmured. Laughing.

“Needed you.” Pressing closer. Listening to the hammer of the rain. Letting it rouse her.

“To take you home?”

A strangled correction. “Take _you_ home.” Yanking her up by the lapels, and seeing a new, curious joy, born in those hooded eyes.

Days later, the head of sport complained that a set of the pavilion keys were still missing, and Héloïse blushed in the staffroom like a pomegranate.

She remembered Miss Blanchard seeing the portraits side by side. Quite by chance. Passing the French windows with her bicycle.

“Oh, Marianne.”

Words spoken so softly that Marianne mightn’t have heard, except that she was sitting near by the open door. A tight smile from each of them. And the grind and crunch of the gravel, as the bike forged onwards.

And the night before the fête. She remembered.

They were lying on their mussed sheets, angled around one another. No mention had been made of any kind of last day, final lesson, fond farewells. None of that. They had met outside Heloise’s classroom, taken one another by the hand, and gone straight to bed. Made a new foundation, for everything else.

Marianne whispered to her. “I’ve done something.”

Héloïse, drowsy already. “Tell me.”

She nodded to the shelf, where their cameras sat, side by side. “I put some paper in.”

“Which one?”

Marianne gazed at her. “Both.”

And Héloïse smiled. “You want this too?” Marianne had nodded. “Me? Like this?”

“Only if you want me.”

“I do.”

Twenty minutes. A long exposure. But the lighting was low. And they thought they would be able to hold still, just looking at one another. They did it almost every night, after all; just gaze and gaze, until gentle, jealous sleep crept in between to separate and claim them. The cameras had a strange effect, though. Héloïse’s eyes were more focused than usual, shining out of her, even as she tried to remain still, like leashed lightning. Her breathing surged in her body more discernibly, and Marianne found her eyes roving up and down with the living movement of the ribs, breasts, soft abdomen. They would blur, Marianne thought, in the print, if they came out at all. My poor eyes; too alive to you to be held down by silver, their absence a testament to your engulfing presence, the smudging of your unearthly body, proof that you were thoroughly alive.

When at last they closed the shutters, they found inexplicably that they were both exhausted, as if they had poured themselves out for one another, even as they had lain completely still.

“Shall we develop them?” Marianne murmured.

“Of course,” Héloïse replied, as if it were not even a question.

“You wouldn’t rather remember us as perfect?” Marianne asked.

Héloïse frowned. “But we aren’t,” she insisted. “We’re real.”

They walked into the school early the next morning, hand in hand, to help set up the fête. It was a silly bit of nothing, really, Héloïse had said, a glorified bake sale, something to say goodbye to the year, to distract the children while the parents loaded cars, and to charm the parents while their children said farewells they might not fully understand.

Marianne had volunteered to do face-painting, set up in the calm of the Hive.

“So many butterflies,” she told Héloïse later. “Butterflies and unicorns. Thank god for the boy who had wanted rashers of bacon.”

“Bacon?”

“Bacon on one cheek, and a can of Fanta on the other.” Marianne had shrugged. “I don’t make the rules. The man paid his pound.”

Héloïse ran the Welly Wanging. She set up next to Marianne so they could share the day.

“Explain,” Marianne had giggled.

“You get a welly boot,” Héloïse had said, grinning, “and you stand on the upper bank, and chuck it as far as you can into the low field. And there’s a prize.” That smile. That smile too. Bashful, proud. Held forever. “I always run it.”

“Héloïse,” Marianne said seriously, into the eager face. “Do they make you run the stall so that you don’t always win?”

“Yes.” And over Marianne’s laughter she had said, “Do you want to try?”

And Marianne had said yes, let Héloïse’s gentle, just-not-teasing hands guide her into position, show her the best way to throw, step away from her, leaving a draughty hollow at her back and neck where there should have been heat and attention. And she tried. Very successfully. So successfully that Héloïse had frowned, murmured, “Wait”, and immediately stepped up herself, picked up the pair to Marianne’s champion boot, her long arms whirling like a hammer throw. Her welly sailed way beyond Marianne’s, almost to the bottom fence. Her eyes had gleamed with excitement. “A following wind!” And her smile expanded. “We’re going to need Nigel’s measuring wheel today. There are records to be broken.”

And Sophie. Sophie and Miles. Running around, hand in hand like children, and not caring in the slightest. How many of these had Sophie been to? Marianne wondered. And now it was all new again, new and old and precious, because she was showing him. Part of the gift with which they would say goodbye.

Marianne found, over and over during the afternoon, that she was hunting for Héloïse. They would have this again, she thought. Many more, perhaps. Beautiful days with the high, horse tail cloud, and silliness in the green fields, and Pimms and strawberries. And bric-a-brac. Because these things always seemed to have bric-a-brac. It didn’t have to be their memory. But she could not help watching and watching Héloïse, showing a little boy how to efficiently throw a Wellington boot, against the backdrop of the high sloping field, mounting into the sky. And Marianne forgot to paint for a moment, and just watched, gathered all that ordinary beauty into her eyes, holding it tight, until she had compressed it into shards of daylight.

There would be a year without her, she thought. She prepared herself. And then.

And then, a chance at forever.

She reminded herself not to cry, and went back to painting butterflies.

She had to wave Héloïse off at the station. After all the heaven of the holiday. She couldn’t go with her to Cambridge, not then. The new term had already started. The new year. The taxi journey with them bundled together in the back, was the shortest it had ever been, and they had sat on the platform together, pressed close on a cold metal bench, arms linked tightly in their thick jackets.

They were the only people there, wrapped in clouds of their own breath and the hanging mist. Autumn all over again.

“We’ve spent one night apart,” Héloïse murmured. The train was still five minutes away. Five minutes is a long time on a train platform; there, if nowhere else. “Just one. Since January.”

“One and a half,” Marianne corrected, bumping Héloïse’s shoulder with her forehead.

“That doesn’t count,” came the mumbled reply. “I was having a crisis.”

“Well, I’ll be having plenty of crises for the next few months,” Marianne confessed. “So maybe they won’t count either.”

They knocked the sides of their feet together, not talking quite, not being able to say it all. Héloïse’s single suitcase, the size of an upright piano, acted as a wall against the wind, against the train’s approach.

“Four weeks?” Héloïse checked, cringing, as they heard the wheels.

“Doable,” Marianne said firmly.

They stood. The announcement crowed over them, that this was it, the Southwest Trains service to London Waterloo, calling at Shut Up, Fuck Off, Go-To-Hell, Clapham Junction and London Waterloo. They kissed, and tried not to mind.

Marianne whispered, playing with the zip of Héloïse’s waxed jacket. “Don’t fall in love with anyone.”

A damp smile. “Too late.”

And Héloïse grabbed the handle of her bag, headed for the doors.

“Wait,” Marianne called, realising something, something dear. “Turn around.”

And Héloïse obeyed. And her jacket hung open. She was wearing the Otters sweatshirt underneath. And she was crying. And that somehow made it okay.

Marianne ran to her and gave her one more kiss.

“Look in your Ovid,” she whispered.

And ran from the platform.

Héloïse texted from the train. “ _You’re beautiful_.”

Marianne sent back a photo of a different photo, propped on a bedside table, next to an overlarge bed. “ _So are you._ ”

“ _I hope you intend to hide that from visitors._ ”

“ _I don’t intend to have any._ ”

“ _Hermit?_ ”

“ _Veritable Julian of Norwich._ ”

“ _As I remember she was visited with visions of divine love._ ”

“ _Don’t be smug. Don’t be smutty._ ”

“ _You like my smutty._ ”

“ _I like your smug as well._ ”

A pause. “ _Did you put ‘Dives and Lazarus’ on my phone?_ ”

“ _Yes._ ”

Another pause. “ _You want me to suffer._ ”

“ _No._ ” Marianne smiled wetly to herself, sitting on the bed, on Héloïse’s side, Florence still propped against the pillow. “ _I want you to remember._ ”

A longer pause this time. “ _Got thirteen minutes?_ ”

“ _Yes_.” Marianne was already reaching for her laptop.

“ _Now?_ ”

“ _Yes_.” And they listened. And Marianne did not need to see Héloïse to know that she was crying in the train. She knew it in her bones, and knew also that it was, in all the ways that counted, a happy thing. That it was only hard because it was good. And they had a way back. They each had a map now. They each had a map of the other.

The blips from Héloïse had been bouncing for quite some time and Marianne, hungry anyway, grew impatient.

“ _Come back, please,_ ” she sent.

Héloïse’s message arrived a little later. And Marianne had to take a moment to read.

“ _The ghost of Orpheus sank under the earth, and recognised all those places it had seen before; and, searching the fields of the Blessed, he found his wife again and held her eagerly in his arms. There they walk together side by side; now she goes in front, and he follows her; now he leads, and looks back as he can do, in safety now, at his Eurydice._ "

After a deep breath, Marianne sent a single word.

“ _Home_ ,”

And Heloise replied in the same instant, as if the word had waited all this time for them both to be ready.

“ _Home_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As if you didn't know these were coming! Vivaldi and Richter's storms are the final additions to the wonderful Far from the Tree playlist, curated by ridiculousmavis to whom all thanks is due:
> 
> [Now That's What I Call Atonal Postmodern Symphonic](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/3fPdiEQLH73sqSmaYFLYEP?si=bE3gE0IJRhid9Lp3ZFXPag)
> 
> And it is not too late to buy silly Otters merch. Please do join in if you feel the need to relive the fun. New designs to be added early tomorrow, so worth checking back. Not for profit. Just for fun:
> 
> [Here be Otters Hoodies](https://www.redbubble.com/people/Shorts84/shop?asc=u&ref=account-nav-dropdown)

**Author's Note:**

> Updates Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays
> 
> I could not have done this without the help and support of ridiculousmavis; reader, encourager and playlist wrangler extraordinaire.  
> Thanks also to Mrs Shorts whose tolerance for the early mornings made the project possible.  
> Blame them.
> 
> This is easily the most English thing I have ever written. Any questions, do hit me up in the comments.


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